Tuesday, November 17, 2009

In the Shadow

In the shadow of the Fortaleza Quetecallas, there is a town, a perfect and picture-esque town. It is the finally bastion against the rapidly growing industrialization surrounding them. Oh, there are many wonderful things about this town.

Natives could wax poetically about the greenary surrounding them, and a listener would be enthralled. City-dwellers would come and inhale the sweet mountain air in awe.

'Have you ever smelled anything so pure?' It was doubtful that shade of verd came in any box of artificial colors.

Everyone knew everyone, and they were the envy of the surrounding towns.


The End.

Guess who has writer's block? This was the start of a brilliant short story, until I forgot where I was going somewhere around sentence numero dos. I figured this was a good enough post.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Name Game.

So, you might be wondering why my blog has some saltines and some beans all up on the header. One, saltines are delicious. They comfort you when your sick. The make soup all the more delightful. If you don't like saltines, leave my blog.

Actually, don't, I need readers.

When I was thirteen, I was at one of my cousin's parties. I didn't speak Spanish, so the majority of parties were spent staring glossily at the rapidly depleating Corona bottles. There was some girl there, and her little sister, and I was standing awkwardly to the side.

"How come you don't talk right?" I suppose I could have ignored her, but I wanted to show, 'See, I was just like you! Just different!' I forget, different isn't a good thing

"I'm half Mexican,"

"Oh. Were you too stupid to learn to speak right?"

At this point, her older sister, broke in, 'speaking right' and told her off. "Callate, pendeja!" She liked my cousin, and her little sister starting things with the fake Mexican of the family wasn't a good way to get him to pay attention to her.

"My dad remarried. Neither speak Spanish very well. I'm Not stupid," Spanish had been touchy for me, ever since my first trip to Mexico, into that tiny farm town, where, lo and behold, they didn't speak English! I found out I had a whole different part of me. And it was mindblowing.

"So, you're a cracker!"

"No, I'm Mexican!" I was, I filled it in on the scantron, I went to Mexico, saw an entire village of people that claimed me as theirs, that I was Mexican.

"You don't speak Spanish. You don't know how to dance right. You're so pale. You don't eat spicy food. You're not Mexican,"

"No, she is--" Her sister interrupted, sensing an impending explosion. "She's a cracker too."

"I am NOT a cracker!"

"Yes you are you're just....A cracker with beans on it!"

"Uh-huh, a cracker con frijoles. Frijoles are beans," her sister added thoughtfully.

"I Know what 'frijoles' are!"

I made my parents leave soon after that, and whenever I would butcher a word in Spanish and be laughed at by my relatives, whenever I'd have to ask for a word in Spanish, whenever I'd fill in a stupid bubble, I'd remember I wasn't Mexican-- I was a cracker with beans.

And is that a bad thing?

I've gone through a good chunk of my life hiding behind various identities--of being a minority, of Not being a minority, of being Mexican, of being white, there's not one single thing I truly belong to.

Being reminded of my dual heritage isn't a bad thing, and while the circles I am in may sometimes make it seem like that...Eh. I will elaborate eventually.


Hai thur. I'm Sabina. Fun etymology behind Sabina-- it's a less popular for of 'Sabine'. I'm kind of mad babynamesworld just treated my life. 'Sabine' means 'From a tribe of Italy'. Oh, zee irony. Amongst my hodge-podge of races--a quarter Irish, a quarter Polish, a Dash of Lithuanian, and a half Mexican-- there is no Italian.

In fact, I'm named for my late mother, who was Mexican. She grew up in a small town. And by small, I mean, 'Oh, DAAAANG, lookit him, he's cute---What do you mean he's my cousin?!' small. Once, I asked my uncle what he thought about the War in Iraq, and he told me to stew-fu. 'Que es Iraq? Pendeja, callate, vete a ayudar su tia. Iraq...ffffffft.' Somehow, I can't see my abuelita, a tiny little farmer (think the woman on the box of the Abuelita hot chocolate, minus the glasses. a little less pampered, and darker, like the sauce of flan) pouring over a baby book. More than likely, she started rhyming things, and got her seventh daughter's name.

I googled myself (don't lie, you do it too, and you're disappointed when the only thing that pops up is like, your school's newspaper) and a bunch of Polish movie actresses popped up. Cool. I google imaged myself.

Um. Yeah, about four pages of dogs, and don't get me wrong they were cute, but cool, I have a dog's name. And then their was a Bratz doll, from like, Eastern Europe--sweet, I'm Barbie's whore-y cousin.

Finally I put my name in a facebook application, and it told me "You are the only Sabina StrangerDanger in the world!"

Damn straight, and proud of it.