Chicanismo Filled Balloons

The start of October in Albuquerque means hot air balloons will sprinkle the sky.  Today, is like many of the traditional mornings, except for a few things.  This year happened to be a cooperative year for balloon lift offs.  The conditions for a balloon to leave the ground are finicky.  In recent years it has been a sarcastic taunting by Mother Nature, timing her winds and rain, to leave the masses guessing.  And this year the rains came, cooperatively, leaving the ideal windows for plumes of released balloons.  Likewise this year was different for my heart. 

Like a hot air balloon being un-packaged, my hope for cultivating or reviving the Chicanismo that nurtures the creativity in Albuquerque, in New Mexico, appears to be unfolding in my life.  My sky, my winds, my rains, and my ideas are also ready to be primed for ascension.  My soul, mi Alma, might be ready, like the sky, to have all these ideas ascend and drift across its jet streams.  This morning I could feel the lower temperature as the sun rose.

  

I felt the brisk air as I pulled back the covers.  I could hear the click of the heater’s blower turn on and the rustling of the air forcing its way through the duct work, pushing out the aroma of burning.  With my mind focusing on anxiety, like the rolled and folded ideas being pulled of a cargo bag.  I find it in me to methodically unravel and stretch the angst.  The colder air in my home adds to the experience occurring in my mind.

 

A colder air helps a good mass ascension.  My passion’s spark, heats up my inner furnace and blows encouragement into my ideas.  The contrast between the trapped heated air and the frigid sky, creates the phenomenon of flotation.  A delicate dance between the cold void of injustice and the hot passion filled canvas dreams.  That hot air is like the Chicanismo spirit being driven against the canvas skin of my ideas and the synchronicity is what I call my dreams. 

  

I am a brown paper bag

The luminarias, more commonly known as faralitos to other New Mexicans, begin to take shape, lining up next to the wheel barrow filled with dirt. Usually two scoops of dirt from an old soda cup will do the job. The bag creased and filled with dirt is ready to find its home along the sidewalk, maybe the drive way, there is also the chance it lands around a tree. It has been my grandpas job for as long as I remember to place the stick between each bag to make sure it fits.

I don't call my grandpa, abuelito or my grandma, abuelita. I call them grandpa and grandma. What a thought to have so close to Christmas. Regardless they are a lot like my parents. I don't call faralitos, faralitos. I call them luminarias, but they both mean the same thing to my Christmas tradition.

The Navidad, reminds chicanos of the luminaria. Not the ethnic Chicano but the cultural Chicano.  Not the brown skinned Chicano but the kind hearted.  The humble symbolic lantern of light in a dark night. Isn't our life a beacon of hope for one another. Isn't it true that we are lanterns and disorient-able at the same time. I have a small burning candle in my heart. Its sheltered in my core. I am the brown paper bag. It's nestled in a bed of dirt. It lights the idea of home.

I trust the dim little amber yellow glow will be enough to guide my thoughts home. Home has become a journey, the journey. Not so much a place. The destination is no longer the priority because home is a condition more than it is a location. Not a destination that can be marked on a map, but experiences that splash the memories of those who share this life. Experiences, dusting the cosmos like a thin white jet stream left by a plane. A jet that once had a destination but now understands that its duty is to simply keep flying.

No, not like a jet stream. A little less straight, maybe more like the wake from a catamaran on a turquiose sheet of water. A catamaran leaving a carefree and curving essence of existence, gradually extending diagonaly left and right until both vectors seems to disappear. They never disappear though, it dissipates. Unless it finds an object to cause a rebound.

No, not like the wake from catamaran. A little less luxurious, maybe more like the tracks from a lonely snowshoer. A pair of snowshoes breaking through a white sparkly brilliance. Two shoes belonging to one person, crunching along, leaving a rhythm of evidence and disruption for as long as the temperature will allow. An essence that is completely dependent on the weather. My flame leaves experiences like snowshoes from a snowshoer with a pulsing flicker.

But not really like a snowshoer's tracks. Not as cold and surely an existence not so lonely. Maybe, an existence like a poem, always holding at the core the genetic and karmic nature of its author. Sometimes expressing the hurts, joys, and indifferences that reacted with other poets ideas about existing. And maybe like the hustle, shuffle, and buzz of a coffee house that lures poets. A congregation of poets, some who call themselves poets, others who are by mere intrinsic creativity considered poets. A collection of experiences like poets writing in a coffee house, my flame dances with energy.

The flame that I see in my heart is as determined as a jet stream streaking furiously through an empty atmosphere. The flame is as nonchalant as a catamaran in Caribbean sea. The flame fighting to glow can be as unaccompanied as pair of snowshoer's tracks. But usually the flame in my heart is as caring and warm as a coffee house filled with poets churning out ideas. My flame throws light against the shelter walls, animating with every flicker.

My flame flickers on this journey, the attitudes of others rustle my flame, not necessarily trying to put it out, creating conditions that bend, taunt, and tire my teardrop shape of fire. The journey is home, staying my course is my hope, and letting my little light shine is my duty. This little flame needs a cover. A cover that will let just enough light out but protect it from the gusts of discouragement.

Like the brown lunch bag that protects the luminaria's' flame from winds and the dirt nestling the candle's base, my body shields my little flame from fears, sustaining my dreams. The years get more and more trying. It feels like the lonely, cold, dark nights grow incrementally longer, perfectly challenging this weak but untiring flame of mine. Still, tonight, and even today that flame flickers giving life to the rhythms in my soul.



Dance little flame, because there is plenty of wick left.

Sadness

I will continue to realize that when I stop having faith in the mystical, angels have a way of telling me to quit doubting, at least long enough to be confused.  If I could hope for happiness I would have to also hope that a sad part of me dies.  There is a lot of life lived with a sad person inside me.  I loved it, and now it might be sailing on after clinging to the jagged edges of my soul.  Now that those are smoothing out I feel that sad gypsy sadness digging and scratching to hang on.  So to all the parts of me that must go I say hello fidelity, there is no more cheating.  Buenos dias trust, jealousy is sinking away.  Welcome home genuineness, breaking through the thick scars left by superficiality's carelessness was a tedious chore thank you for enduring the grunge.   Help me sing this song to the parts of me that are dying...now.  If death were ever a friend, please be gentle to the sadness coming your way.  With it are tons of memories stored away.  Death be kind since it can't be any other way.   Hello happiness nice to greet you, I hope you can help me be misunderstood in kinder ways.  If I am understood I know it isn't because of my clarity but because of the other persons happiness.

through Him, with Him, and in Him

Hesitate...

Hesitation is one of those words that has some stigma attached to it.  In sports I was always told don't hesitate.  In spirit, I find that hesitation might open my perspective to something I may have whizzed by.  I have herd how hesitating has stopped accidents, equally hesitating has caused accidents.  I know for me it leans towards the negative pole.

I am interested in observing how hesitation works in love.  Just go after it.  Does that mean that going after it doesn't include hesitations.  In basketball there is the hesitation step, where you give the defender the impression that your letting up but then penetrate quickly right past them.  Is love a sport?  Is there room for hesitation in love?  I am not sure and I know fear is my primary motivator for having hesitation.  I am beginning to see that there are no truths when it comes to love.

Each decision to act or hesitate is only interpretable.  One thing I worry about is my regret around not taking action.  There are times when I build anxiety around events where I think I could have acted better.  These times make me wonder about how flexible hesitation can be, like a reversible jacket.  I still do believe that we make the current decision the best decision, but regret has been a teacher.  Regret has become a tool that is allowing me to reflect on my attitudes and values because I think I could have used a few hesitations and I know I could have benefited from a few "just go for its".  I don't have clarity on decision making or regret.  I just appreciate that hesitation is not necessarily a bad thing, and that its used side is equally as effective as its unused side.

I see how I have grown to value the mystical and the spiritual.  It fills the void between feeling affirmed and regretful.  I often tell myself things happen for a reason and the reason may never be revealed to me.  This might be where faith is born.  I like to think I have faith and really don't like describing it because my faith includes too much doubt to be understood by the typical dogmatic understanding of faith.  But this is where my faith thrives.  My ego likes to be in control and control is power.  I like to lead because the ego feels valued.  I have not gotten to the point where I know when my ego is complimenting me or undermining me.  In the realm of spirituality nothing seems to stay constant, therefore nothing is good or bad, but only interpretable.

So, I go today, asking my ego to allow me to recognize my spirit, so that we can make quality interpretations of decisions to come and be prepared to reflect on our decisions experienced.  I have a foolish and naive belief that, if I trust in my spirit, those hesitations that I worry about will fall between the spectrum of grace and regret, both leaving me fully prepared to learn.

In honor of my mother who teaches me to forgive, regret, and apologize.   Francesca I love you!

Taking Medicine

Can sickness be desired? Is it wrong for me to deny or detour someone on the path of sickness? I am enjoying this concept of illness and wellness. I believe that the well have a formula for being well. I have begun to consider that well is a polarity that needs to be balanced with being ill. Is the formula for being ill just as worthy of praise as the formula for health. Does illness lead to death? A wise man in my circle of faith a long time ago said that a grain of wheat must fall and die for it to produce more seeds. I think I am needing to have more respect for illness that leads to death. Mystically, I think illness has something to say in this world, even potentially teach us. Is the medicine available to me a muzzle on illness' advocate. If I see illness as an intruder then I treat it with disdain, I am aspiring to see it as a messenger who ultimately wants to deliver good news. Even the worst of us wants to be heard.

What is it to be a Warrior?

This question was recently asked of me.

I'll start with representing it the only way I've ever known it.

it is stepping out of the child's mind, saying goodbye to mother and father, and walking alone into space, time, and the direction of old age.
it is embodying the will to walk out onto a battle field, away from comforts and convenience, to look across and see death, shake its hand, and know this is a battle I will lose.
it is taking inventory of my qualities, strengths, vulnerabilities, skills, knowledge, and allies, while rationing all of them to keep death on its toes, backing up, or chasing.
it is trusting fear enough to keep me safe, but not respecting it so much that it debilitates me.
in the end, what the fuck do I know what it is to be warrior.

I think a warrior never believes they are a warrior, but maybe just doing what needs to be done in the moment, without consideration for what it is to be a warrior.

I admire the warrior enough to pay attention to their post war message, that says to avoid war at all costs.

we are all warriors....at times.

See past your bias and into the child

If we take a second look at our lower classes and see past the dysfunction, I think we could recognize a child's eyes. If we looked beyond the physical and into the culture I think we can recognize an underdeveloped child. If we looked beyond the violence and filth, I think we can recognize an abused child. If we looked at our lower classes with a compassion towards the collective I think we could recognize and underdeveloped culture. My longing is to not assign blame, not to trickle down opportunity, not create boot straps, but to be critical in action towards those who blame, delegate, deny, and take advantage. When I look into the eyes of the aspiring tycoon's culture I can see an adolescence's eyes.

In a common family the Adults model for their children, and develop, invest, and care for their children's future. In my family even siblings support and provide for younger siblings. In this country at times it doesn't feel like a family.

Inspired by:

Trailer

Loving the game!

I think I have learned what the most challenging aspect of a man's life is.

It is loving a partner fully, completely, and purely. I have trained and prepared for many challenging things in my life. I have had coaches teach me skills and techniques in preparation for games or events. I have had the discipline and self motivation to be committed to preparing for all the anticipated aspects of competition, and trained for how to deal with the unexpected. In baseball I crafted my defense, I conditioned regularly, and I made a point to improve always. In individual sport events, I transferred this mindset into my workouts, research, and dedication. I learned to become my own coach and learned the quality of self discipline. Unfortunately, all these qualities worked well for me in competition, but seem detrimental to my ability to love. My professional career has embraced and leveraged my athlete's mind or warrior spirit. I am learning or becoming aware of how useless these skills are, when it comes to love.

Love is not a competitive event. So most of what I learned in my young adult life has not helped me love. In fact it has taught me how to love with my mind versus my heart, which for me is not loving at all. I also can't remember having a love coach. I don't recall ever having love workouts. I rarely made time for learning how to love. My coaches never made room for love in their warriors curriculum. I was filled with anger, focused rage, and a thirst for strength. I was told that losing sucks, and its all about winning. Not much love in this message. If it takes a man to lose his ability to love to gain a championship then I welcome the losers bracket. I was not taught how to hold ferocity with care.

So as I open my heart to the concept of love, I see how my competitive mind distracts my God given thoughts. The heart doesn't compete. My heart is waiting for my mind to rest long enough to be coached in the language, rules, and spirit of the game called love. It is a game where if played for the right reasons everyone wins. It is a game where the best are the example and the worst are honored for participating.

The most challenging thing I have done in my life is to live for another. I have questioned and still question my ability to commit to one lover. Loving is so much fun...this is my exploitation of love. I am loving for its fruit and I have become unwilling to learn the complete love lessons that are learned in sacrifice, self control, and discipline. I am a love tycoon, seeking to tap into loves aquifers, drill love's lands, and mine love's bedrocks. I have not let go of my addiction to the profits that come from using love, like infatuation, pleasure, or thrills. I am an adolescent lover. This game called love has put on its full court press, it has brought in the hard throwing lefty, and I am in the middle rounds with love's best pound for pound lover. I am excited, because love respects my stupidity, arrogance, and foolishness, it won't use it against me, but for me.

Through Him, with Her, and In Them.......

Amen!

Si se puede!

I used to think that César Estrada Chávez was Mexican. I used to think he fought for immigrant rights. It was by economic circumstance that most people he fought for were immigrants. It was by life circumstance that he was fighting to be treated respectfully. It was by social circumstance that the voice took on the look of a Mexican. It was by spiritual circumstance that his voice was herd. I used to ignorantly hold pride in his name. I used to believe that he was a brown man fighting "The Man". My perceived ideas were angry and possibly misguided.
"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me" (1 Corinthians 13:11)

Now I'd like to think I am no longer ignorant. I have since learned that he was born in Arizona. He was American with Mexican heritage. I have since learned that he fought for every worker's human rights, in the form of appropriate working conditions and fair wages. He was like Juan Galt, in that he invented a motor that propels peoples' belief in themselves. But unlike John Galt he was real, not fiction. He did not discriminate...openly. He did not seek to be treated as an oppressed, but asked that he and those like him be treated with dignity and respect. He was an advocate for fairness, justice, and dignity. He was educated, but not by schools. He served in the United States Navy. He was a boy who learned how to be man who could lead men. He is one of my American Heroes.

In Synch with Dirt

It is interesting how the Lord works. For me when I talk of the Lord, I describe a mental concept or philosophy, a formidable connection to my mortality, an understanding of my dependence on others, a strong feeling to be committed and responsible to all(people, animals, water, earth, air, and ideas), an internal guide that surprises, corrects, and steers me. To summarize this it She/He/They are the energy that fuels my mind, body, spirit.

In continuation of my Lenten tradition, I am wanting to share with you how I understand God. It feels natural to want to keep it secret because it feels really foolish to describe something that feels childish. None the less, the essence of healthy and unhealthy are alive and well in me, and rightfully so I teeter respectfully with both. I have learned that in my unhealthiness I can learn, and in my healthiness I can destroy. This lesson for me is beautifully humble.

So the synergy between my mind, body, and spirit is leading me to dirt. Like the color of my skin, I relate to dirt. I recently began planting for the first time in my life. The pilgrimage this Lenten season will be completed with a 24 mile walk to a sacred New Mexican church. There lies a pit that is believed to hold healing "Dirt".

As the political and economic debates about environmental climate change rage on, I know that for me the battle is only with my resistance to a deep connection with dirt. I recognize that business decisions are made in metal towers, using silicon tools, and are complicated by profits. The connection to earth is not discussed by boards of directors (I assume). But that's cool, they serve a different and necessary purpose. I am lucky to feel connected to something as simple as dirt. Haaaaaa haaaaaaaa! Fuck-N-A, I am proud of my journey towards simplicity and scared to get there, cause I know it is a return to the dirt.

Until I get there and God willing it be many years away, I pray to be like the hummingbird.


If your interested the clips are from a documentary, its available for free at Hulu. I highly recommend the 1hr and 1/2
Dirt! The Movie

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

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.