My People
Now let's get one thing straight: I'm Mexican. My girlfriend is not. She would really like to be, though. She claims to be Mexican because her retarded brother married (and then divorced) a Mexican woman and had three kids with her. She claims that since she's related to Mexicans, she herself is a Mexican.
She's blonde, with green eyes. She does not speak Spanish, or rather, she speaks a little, and when she does, she does so poorly. To her credit, she loves Mexican food, but I believe that there's something wrong with people born and raised in southern Texas who don't like Mexican food. As such, this hardly qualifies her as Mexican; it just means that she's that much closer to sanity and normalcy.
I was raised with the silly (at least in my opinion) last name of Gonzalez. Often misspelled, mispronounced (which I don't get - who didn't watch Looney Tunes growing up? hello, Speedy??), and often made fun of. My parents' first language is Spanish. I don't speak it too well, but my Spanish is much better than hers. I also love Mexican food, but mostly because its the best food on the planet. I refuse to hear anything else on the matter of Mexican food. Its just great.
She works with this guy, Hector. Hector is about my age, attended UIW on a baseball scholarship (that's right, baseball for Christ's sake), and he is one of my people. The first time we met, I had just gotten off a tirade a few hours earlier, because my girlfriend didn't want to let me make taquitos. She said I'd make a mess. Well, I do FRY them. How the hell else do you make taquitos? I told her that if she didn't let me have my damn taquitos, I was going to call my people and have a march through our apartment after I hung a Mexican flag the size of a king size bed on our porch.
I got my taquitos.
Hector told me that if I ever needed him for a march, to call him. I'm sure that we're related in some way. He also showed my girlfriend just how NOT Mexican she is. She doesn't even know what "CHATA!" means! Which was great, because I got to tell her to CHATA FUCK UP! And when I told Hector his hat was chafa, she didn't get it, either. Hector told me it was his lucky cap. He once got a free pound of barbacoa wearing it. Fuck yes, esse. Then we told wonderful stories about being beaten with chanclas while getting very drunk indeed.
While Chris regards being poor and speaking Spanish as grounds for Mexicanness, mine include large hoop earrings, eating strange parts of the cow, and being beaten with chanclas as a child.
She's blonde, with green eyes. She does not speak Spanish, or rather, she speaks a little, and when she does, she does so poorly. To her credit, she loves Mexican food, but I believe that there's something wrong with people born and raised in southern Texas who don't like Mexican food. As such, this hardly qualifies her as Mexican; it just means that she's that much closer to sanity and normalcy.
I was raised with the silly (at least in my opinion) last name of Gonzalez. Often misspelled, mispronounced (which I don't get - who didn't watch Looney Tunes growing up? hello, Speedy??), and often made fun of. My parents' first language is Spanish. I don't speak it too well, but my Spanish is much better than hers. I also love Mexican food, but mostly because its the best food on the planet. I refuse to hear anything else on the matter of Mexican food. Its just great.
She works with this guy, Hector. Hector is about my age, attended UIW on a baseball scholarship (that's right, baseball for Christ's sake), and he is one of my people. The first time we met, I had just gotten off a tirade a few hours earlier, because my girlfriend didn't want to let me make taquitos. She said I'd make a mess. Well, I do FRY them. How the hell else do you make taquitos? I told her that if she didn't let me have my damn taquitos, I was going to call my people and have a march through our apartment after I hung a Mexican flag the size of a king size bed on our porch.
I got my taquitos.
Hector told me that if I ever needed him for a march, to call him. I'm sure that we're related in some way. He also showed my girlfriend just how NOT Mexican she is. She doesn't even know what "CHATA!" means! Which was great, because I got to tell her to CHATA FUCK UP! And when I told Hector his hat was chafa, she didn't get it, either. Hector told me it was his lucky cap. He once got a free pound of barbacoa wearing it. Fuck yes, esse. Then we told wonderful stories about being beaten with chanclas while getting very drunk indeed.
While Chris regards being poor and speaking Spanish as grounds for Mexicanness, mine include large hoop earrings, eating strange parts of the cow, and being beaten with chanclas as a child.