What does our Country think of us?

New Mexico has a rich history of culture, simplicity, and sustainability. We have immigrant cultures who have brought education, technology, government, and an art culture that we are marginally benefitting from.

Photographer John Collier Jr.

Why was this desert region a refuge for the American immigrant. The American immigrant refuses to see themselves as a foreigner, exploitative, profiteering, and impossing. As I have learned, which may be inaccurate but willing to be corrected, many easterners came to escape the onset of Tuberculosis. Our climate was convenient for recovery and lifestyle. With them came their culture and imposed value systems.

My Grandma and Grandpa remember a couple of these families, thier names are Simms and Dietz both immigrants with plenty of wealth and education to exploit a dusty Spanish artifact. Symbolically a message of "you reap, what you sow", for a people who once exploited a wild native region of indigenous peoples. John Simms' family later went on to have sons who prospered in this state, enough to become a representative and governor. They weren't illegal by their definition, but alien by my definition. The Dietz family is also immigrant to this region. Both of these men were lucrative land owners. They contributed to the discriminatory white (not white indicating race, rather what society sees as legal) markets called government, brokering, and banking. Both my Grandparent's families worked for these families, during the depression era. My Grandparents, as humble as they are, appreciated the opportunity to work their land, nurse their children, and prepare their meals. I on the other hand, I despise their laziness to be gluttonous enough to need servants to manage their material stockpiles. They were welfare gluttons, using their intelligence to manipulate the best business strategies, buy low and produce high. I am still learning what these families did for a living, all their children attended college and am not sure if they served in the war. I know they paid my grandparents families well enough to feel grateful. I see the payment as the distraction needed for these immigrants to sink their fangs into a culture, and start the feeding process. I will seek to see the compassionate perspective just not yet.

Around the time when these families had settled in and made themselves at home, the government needed a place to experiment. They needed a wasteland, a useless testing area to blow things up. They needed a target range. Well, what better place than that barren state with those Spanish speaking Catholics. What have they got to lose. So as we have all learned and been taught to admire, the nuclear age was born here. We were the first place to have been nuclear bombed. This is reflective of what America thinks of us. This continues today, as we suck on the tit of the energy department, continuing to develop and harvest weapons of mass destruction, unwilling to recognize our real capabilities. This has resulted in defense and energy contracted corporations imposing more capitalistic movidas, under the disguise of laboratories and research facilities, called Sandia (watermelon) Laboratories and Los Alamos (cottonwood) Laboratories. For years we only entered these facilities as groundskeepers, janitors, and mules. As, we, the youth, have been educated, we have become the modern house slaves, excited that we can wear a badge and enter their gated areas.

Around the early 90's the government again needed a place to experiment. This time it was with their garbage. Not your normal everyday garbage, but the worst kind, nuclear waste. I think about where I keep my garbage, then I realize awe this is what Gringo politicians think of my region. This region is that stinky part of the city where no one will care if we leave our garbage. Again we have been taught to feel honored, as a place, respected enough to hold Americas shit. The American immigrant explains to us ignorant and powerless pendejos, "Be happy, It brings jobs!"

So my understanding of New Mexico's participation in America is understood through this lense. It is through this lense that I formulate an understanding for what immigration means. It is through this lense that I ask myself to see the benefits of this immigrant culture. It is through this lense that I wonder how our privileged educational institutions isolate themselves from the deterioration found in barrios and reservations. I am beginning to understand how these privileged institutions can have such a unique perspective on acceptance with an aptitude and a knack for success.

Roark, Kelly.(2011). Natures Sanitarium: Getting Well in New Mexico. New Mexico State Record Center and Archives

I run

I ran to work today. I think a lot of people either think I am crazy or long to run themselves. I enjoy car watching because a car says a lot about who we are. So as I am trekking along Albuquerque's streets, I see people who glare at me, inquire, and wonder. I enjoy eye contact, for the sole purpose of soul. I know when I see someone running while I am driving, and I think about how free and in-sync they are with their body. I remember how it feels to be in that tempo, cadence, and rhythm. I enjoy cold weather running because that synchronicity is so much more in tune. Any imbalance is amplified by the cold air. I wonder what people are thinking when they glare, glance, or watch as we cross paths for a moment. I wonder what goes through their mind as our souls connect for an instance.

In a symbolic, maybe silly, probably senseless way (to the common man), I run to work to make a small impact on my body, mind, and soul, hoping it send shock-waves out to the rest of the world. I run so the restless troops on Restrepo can come home, to Captain Donald Maloy so you don't have to go back, and for Pat Tillman so your memory isn't lost, I run. I run to work as often as circumstances will allow, and connect with hundreds of people a month, even if only for a moment. My responsibility as a citizen is to ensure that independence from oil starts with me, energy conservation starts with me, and respect for New Mexico's future starts with me.

With disdain for the oil executive, with pity for the marketer, with admiration for the American soldier, and with hate for the exploiter, and with empathy knowing I am all, I run.

Yo soy un Gringo

San Agustin Catholic Church, Isleta Pueblo

I spent half my life knowing the word gringo as a way of describing White people. It has more than one meaning, it also can be derogatory. It holds a whole deeper meaning. As I mature and process the emotions that comes with witnessing life, injustice, and grace, I find it hard to use gringo as a term to simply distinguish a group of foreign people. It has become too superficial of a use. In my adolescence and early adulthood it served its purpose and allowed me to express my belonging to a Chicano culture, by helping me believe I could discharge my vengeance and vindicate my own Latino pride. Education and understanding has defused this arrogant energy. Life has broken my pride and dignity down enough to allow compassion to seep into my soul's crevices. The compassion has infiltrated my defenses, it has manipulated my hatred. Unfortunately for my primitive mind this is the downfall to my ignorant thought process. I still come to judgment when I meet an arrogant white person. My defenses and radar for arrogance is honed, probably because I held so much myself for so long, that I can smell it...sense it. I see it in every one, the gringo quality that is. The term "Gringo" is a mentality.

I have my prejudice and it steers me wrong most times. So I am trying to deal with it. I could say that it reveals my ignorance, wounding, and my humanity. My stereotypes and bitterness are being broken apart, slowly, but certainly. Today was a great example. After working out and preparing to shower, a mature white man had his clothes sprawled on the bench. Significantly, symbolically, we were both naked, and he apologized for having his stuff sprawled out. Then he said words that don't seem that profound, but rocked my conscience sternly. Paraphrasing he said sorry mate, I am like a refugee, i don't have a locker. I connected because I don't have a gym locker either. For the first time in my life I was forced to see a white man declare himself as a refugee. Again, "Gringo" may only describe a mindset. It could very well describe someone who is a foreigner for opportunistic or self-serving reasons. It could describe the refugee or the imperialist. Regardless now I can recognize the refugee in the white face, crushing my rooted understanding of the stereotypes that white means selfish, individualistic, oppressor, and restless. All I can conjure is an apology, to who, I don't know, all my animosity is never truly acted on. I try to seem pleasant to everyone. But bringing this out, makes me guilty of living it. I have grown into a thinking that I condemn in others that have the same gringo thinking.

I recognize how my ancestors were "Gringo" to this land. The archetypal quality of an inspired immigrant shares the gringo's beliefs, and is a hopeful refugee full of ideas. I am a Gringo, to my Chicano communities because I don't dress, appear, or talk barrio I am gringo to my American institutions because I resent them for the culture and community they've created. I am gringo to myself because each identity that I am insecure with, ashamed of, and embarrassed by i suppress, reject, and oppress. I think if we were to look at our immigrant selves as refugees we might recognize the rejected, suppressed, and oppressed.
In honor of my white internal refugee, may I keep close the pain I left behind, be mindful of suffering I can create by arriving, and I give the respect that I wish I had received in the place I abandoned.

Somos Peregrinos

Shadow Work

Following the theme of shadow, a teacher's blog about students gets her pushed into the shadows. For the mystically deficient, this translates to, A teacher had some shocking blog post about students and might be fired/expelled.

Read the NPR Story Here

So with compassion I was inspired to write a little letter to this education warrior. Yes educational warrior is mystical, and can be translated to under-served public service provider.

Dear Natalie Munroe,
I respect your shadow qualities. I see the frustration you have with some students lack of value for learning. I have been one of those students. So in a crazy way thanks for letting me know and sorry for being a smart ass, rude and a lazy whiner...seriously. I honor your ability to defend your shadow self. I am reminded by your experience that what institutions find appropriate will likely be at odds with my shadow qualities, reinforcing the shame that comes with some experiences of being human.

You are a brave and courageous American Patriot for education.

Gods Speed!

Ron

Out of the Shadows

Artist Unknown

The shadows are where I have put my qualities worth shaming. In the shadows is where I put my indigenous characteristics. In the shadows is where I have stored my embarrassments. Covered is where I keep my most vulnerable blemishes. Like Adam leaving the garden covering his genitals, I too have learned to believe I am shameful.

When I look for leaders that look like me, I recognize that they are in prisons, in the back of the stores, in the warehouse, in the servant quarters, in the kitchen, on buses, on the south side, on the other side of the tracks, and in the bars, homeless, pulled over, being arrested, being questioned, in mug shots and in the principles office. I have learned to believe that they are shameful. I am now, with a scientific method, beginning to prove to myself, that my shadowed leadership is worthy. I am finally beginning to see how to function in the shadows. I am learning how to continue to keep my internal candle lit, while not having to leave the shadows, without gentrifying someone's home in a lit place.

I speak mystically when I say keeping my internal candle lit. Let me translate this for the soulfully illiterate and the spiritually ignorant. My internal candle is the motivation to seek understanding versus being understood, giving versus receiving, serving versus being served, being an employee versus looking for them, appreciating what I have versus believing it will lead to more, loving versus looking to be loved, and feeding versus being fed. I use the term candle because it is small, manageable, and sustainable. I use lit because fire is a source of light that has transcended time as we know it, it is not synthetic energy it is raw and natural.

My culture has been conquered, exploited, and ransacked. I look at what my culture has to give up to participate in this new modern society, and I say, "Fuck That". Inclusion isn't as simple as dressing business casual and maybe a tie to the Christmas/Winter party. I look at Susanna Martinez and I recognize how I SOLD OUT to a tradition and a belief in my heritage. I see how I gave up on the lifestyle of my ancestors for the opportunity to be seen as equal. I see now that equality in this country isn't proven, it is felt. I recognize it in the Scotsman who wears his kilt on special occasions but rarely to work. I recognize the Irishman who displays his culture pridefully one day in February, but blends in all other days. I see the Indian men who mostly where the pyjama for ceremonies. We were all once indigenous. We are all slowly saying goodbye to the spirits of our ancestors. This might be part of the process or it might be a disrespect to simplicity. We'll see?

I have been asked to soldier up in this new army. That's cool. I can get on board this slave train. It isn't an American slave train, nor a industrial slave train, but rather a human self shaming train, that cannot love all its parts. This slave train leads me in the direction of many great slaves who learned the true meaning of service, and possibly the true meaning of Jesus' Gospels, Buddha's message, and Allah's vision. The great Victor Frankel got on a similar train, and it led him to his greatest possession....meaning.

Los Batallones Perdido

Artwork by David Gonzales

As I contemplate why my community of young comaradas have chosen a life committed to self hatred and animosity, brandishing itself in gangs and cage fighting, I realize the warrior spirit is aimless. We live in a country that reminds us everyday that we are visitors in our own homes. We are told that we are a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, but are shown that "the people" is a very selective term. We are taught to learn a gringo way and rarely asked to contribute the Chicano way. We have so many Chicano warriors willing to die for their beliefs, barrios, cartelas, and camaradas. This warrior spirit is aimless.

Where are our veteranos? Donde esta el buen hombre? He is hidden in the loyalty of the bad ass, also the mentality of being chingon. He is hidden in the commitment to an ideology that muerte is a consequence of working hard, as it is said on the streets, "its only business". Our wall street can be found in the gringo prisons where, markets are brokered, drug markets established, respect dividends are paid, and market leverage is assassinated. It is also the same place where you'll find our cultural supreme courts. It is in the state prisons where the judges that hold our indigenous oaths to justice, hold court. It is where death sentences are handed down from adopted judges, called mafiosos, the elite, the remenance of the Aztec and Mayan warrior spirit, confined to the shadows and dungeons left to believe he is criminal, internalizing it, forgetting that he also has the greatness of God stored deep inside his oppressed and defeated mind, body, and spirit. Our engineers are also found in prisons. We have innovative people who continue to bank roll million dollar spending accounts, while imprisoned, finding ways to use our Chicano internet, as seen in a young woman tucking drogas into her vaginal cavity later to be un-packaged, distributed, marketed, and sold for profit. This is supply chain management, no different from the gringo pharmaceuticals. The only difference is the birth canal from which the the drugs are conceived. I have witnessed 13 year old boys create lighters from a paper clip and batteries to light their marijuana cigarettes, then punished, instead of rewarded for their ingenuity, yet a man named Nobel, inspires a weapon that kills millions and they name a peace prize after him. Our warrior spirit is aimless.

We have artist, called graffiti vandals who take pride in their placa. This is the urban art warrior who can't afford a canvas, sketchbook, or more importantly needs to. Yet we allow marketers to post half naked women on our free ways in the form of advertising. We allow a man named Heffner his freedom to objectify woman, the Marlboro man to propagate the deception of smoking, we allow Captain Morgan the opportunity to convince us that all we need is a little liquid courage. Yet we call graffiti vandalism. If these young urban warriors were allowed the time to create, their work wouldn't be rushed and slapped on walls. It might me passionate, mindful, and respectable, as they would be respected. Our warrior spirit is aimless.


"Teach the ignorant as much as you can; society is culpable in not providing a free education for all and it must answer for the night which it produces. If the soul is left in darkness sins will be committed. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but he who causes the darkness."
— Victor Hugo (Les Misérables)

Mark Gonzales - As With Most Men

There is a collective idealism floating through us, in us, from us, some call it the Holy Spirit, some energy, some karma, some truth, some God, and the list goes on. In our humanity we trip over semantics or the fear of someone else explaining it better. Despite all this idealism, there is another collective quality that we do equally well and that quality some call hypocrisy, some contradiction, some two-faced, some cognitive dissonance, some confusion, some denial, and the list goes on.

Enjoy this elegant display of the paradox between what we want to think is true and the surprising reality that "believing" isn't an efficient process.

Transplant

When I was turning 11 I moved from Albuquerque's south valley to Santa Fe's Carlos Rey area. I had no say so, no discussion, just one summer, my mom up and moved us to Santa Fe. Then, I felt uprooted, now I realize, this fertilized my life. This removed me from the social constructs that bind most of Albuquerque's brown youth. I was removed from the peer pressures of inferiority, violence, and ignorance. Santa Fe was a haven. I remember how it reminded me of living in the mountains.
I remember exploring the arroyos as if I was on an adventure. The most significant piece of this was that I was alone. I was forced to experience being alone. I didn't have the distractions of a sibling, cousins, friends, or classmates. I spent 2 or 3 weeks depending on my creativity, intuition, and fear. I carried some street smarts with me, and I knew how to blend in. Santa Fe at the time was a rocker town. I would describe it as influenced by classic rock and heavy metal. I grew up influenced by R&B, soul, and oldies. Santa was alien to me. I don't remember this being very disruptive.
I remember the accent being new and different. I remember having to learn a whole new slang. I even remember weekend visits with cousins and having to explain all the new words I was using. I remember beginning to cuss regularly. I remember, the cholo influence was minimal.I don't remember it being a threatening culture, like Albuquerque. I do remember the drug scene being as active. I lived in between two parks with no cholos. What wasn't different was the food, church, and little league.
The city was smaller and with it came genuineness. But also an introduction into the gringo world. For some strange reason the gringo in Santa is forced to immerse themselves in a more collaborative, yet still divisive, fashion. The division is access, availability, and distribution of resources.

Lost and found...

Where I am from, we weren't taught our lingo
but we learned a slang that carried the essence of what was. I am bitter about the expectations I have for myself to learn Espanol. I am restless with doubt that I will ever be fluent.
English is a language for superficial business, but Espanol is the language of my soul, like a lost puppy picking up the scent of home, my language is a distant desire.
Now I am told I should know it, by gente that are fortunate.
Fortunate because now its cool to know the flow.
They don't know the struggle, the history suffered to undue the latin-ness.
They don't know how hard, those who have passed, have worked to set the stage for Latinos of today.
At times I see it as them selling their souls. They didn't respect their own tradition. They were embarrassed of our lengua. Then reality sets in and I realize that even I move to judgment when I hear the moch in mine and others accents. My accent is me, I am embarrassed of me. I am embarrassed of my lack of excellence and precision. I am gradually undoing this gringo mentality. The gringo characteristic of conditions and criteria. I am embrace my indigenous quality of acceptance, of all, not just the pleasant. In this I recognize the strategy for survival that my grandparents felt a need to endure in order to fit in with this newly arriving gringo institution, economy, and values, a gringo culture not too distant from my own ancestral privilege imposed on the Pueblo, Apache and Navajo people of the original Neuvo Mexico.

It is with great reward that I digest the shame of loosing my language, in order to, generations later, know it is always a commitment and learning process away.
To those who use it as a tool for pride, I say "es una cosa es habla la lengua pero es un otra cosa para apriciarlo".



There will be no undoing my white-ness but resurrecting my brown-ness is difficult. My questions focus around what it is to be brown. My answers are not validated by my communities and this leads me to believe that my work is in building a new answer key. What I see being reflected from the streets is resistance to potential. Refusal to process pain. A adolescent pride in something hateful, violent, and destructive. I see a need to fit in, be noticed, and respected. I see hope in some and despair in most. I am no longer struggling to be a baller, high roller, jefe, or statured. I am now struggling to be what my ancestors hoped I would be, humble, serving, principled, faithful, respectful, and loving. It feels like what I am trying to be is isolated.

Dreams aren't enough..

Pondering more on my desire for leadership, I see that what I am looking for is unrealistic. I am looking for Dr. King, Dr. Chavez, and Dr. Mandela. These men are not a dime a dozen, like if every city can pick one up at the local hero mart. I romanticize about being inspired, I dream about a man who is loud enough to wake up the barrios of Albuquerque from their deep slumber in inferiority. Albuquerque's heights is where America lives, the South Valley is bilingual but not for the good reasons, the west side is where my generation has migrated to, and the bosque is a refuge for realty and trends.

I am a dreamer, and my dreams don't make sense to the streets. I am beginning to realize that my dreams are different. I look around as I drive through the streets of the Duke City, what I see are other peoples dreams. I sit deeper, listening to Miles Davis, I ask myself is this what other peoples dreams look like? Do people dream of ignorance and stereotypes? Do peoples dreams peak with rims on a low rider, steel balls hanging from the tow hitch on a raised truck, or muscles to back up a mad dog stare? When did our dreams get so superficial. Who is teaching us about empowerment?

I dream of co-ops, peace battalions, community gardens, brilliance, creativity, and
Tattoos that say "Mi Vida Buena"

A chosen path..

Lookin back at what life was like, I had it good. In a barrio that never seemed dangerous despite the stabbing here and the drugs over there. My perspective wasn't one of right or wrong, poor or rich, brown or white, privileged or unfortunate, or minority or majority. My neighborhood growing up was Duranes. For me it was apple orchards, street football games, a piece of a porno mag under rock across the street, a mud ball fight, and tattoos.
This photo is a photo of my playground. Sports were iconic. It meant status, respect, and popularity. Marijuana was normal. I remember hearing stories of vatos being stabbed, and being afraid to grow up and believing I would eventually get stabbed. The photo below captures the park bench where a reporter, when I was a kid, was listening to a group of cholos describe how they stabbed and were stabbed, almost romanticizing it. I remember vividly, one of my uncle's friends pulling his shirt up revealing a scar on his side, right below his lat, with the tattoo of the Virgen on his back. I remeber thinking how cool, but fuck, it must hurt. Every cut I got as a kid I would in my head ask is this how it will feel when I get stabbed. I remember thinking as a youngster which tattoo I was going to get Jesus or La Virgen. Life didn't seem dangerous nor reckless. It was, was it was. It was exciting. Death didn't scare me, but pain...yeah that was scary. School wasn't learning, school was daycare. School meant I got to play sports wearing a uniform. I remember my favorite t-shirt was that of a little brown kid holding a diesel and it said Chicano power. I didn't choose my color. I remember the fun-est times of my life were stealing apples from the orchard, riding to the mall in my uncles 57 Chevy, and the smell of fresh tortillas from my grandmas kitchen.

Now that I am educating myself this is what I want to remember. I don't feel a need to remember the language I wasn't taught. I don't feel a need to recover an education I left behind. I feel proud of lack of exposure to trends. I choose to learn what I need now, and have no regrets for getting a late start. I didn't have the best role models but the ones I had are what I worked with.

Mostly I feel confused by what I feel I was supposed to be, what I have seen, and what I would like to be. I look around at the men I have as role models and realize I am on my own course now. I have begun a new path. It feels like there aren't any role models for me. I have chosen a route that rejects the status quo. Things that are important to me, are left festering. I feel a void for leadership. I feel a void for Chicano leadership. I feel a void for that righteous attitude that can hold onto the New Mexican history and plan action against this American infiltration. I refuse the bad ass route. I refuse the cholo and prefer the curandero. I look at the people I admire and they are either from a different generation, dead, or unfamiliar to me. I don't have a Chicano mentor. Most books I read are authored by a white men. Most community leaders are politicos or Mexican. Most community leaders are from somewhere else.