Dear Mexican: Can you recommend a solid, accessible history
of California and Arizona so I can learn what really happened when
the U.S. gobbled Aztlán?
— La Chica Confundida
Dear Wabette: The holistic classic in this genre of Rodolfu Acuña’s
Occupied America: A History of Chicanos, but it’s a bit pricey,
a problem that the legendary profe has told the Mexican he is trying
to rectify. For California, I recommend Leonard Pitts’ The Decline
of the Californios: A Social History of the Spanish-Speaking Californias,
1846-1890, which examines the tricks and treasons gabachos used
in screwing over California’s native Mexicans after the Mexican-American
War; Hispanic Arizona, 1536-1856, by James E. Officer offers the
same for the Copper State, and is a great chinga tu madre for the
Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpayaso fan in your familia. But as
much as you and I would like to think otherwise, the rest of this
Mexican-obsessed country doesn’t share the same fascination for
Arizona, California or the American Intervention. Really, the best
book you can purchase to teach people about the Reconquista are
two: mine. Kidding … sort of. In all honesty, the only libro people
interested in the Mexican Question should buy this holiday season
is the one they should already have: Carey McWilliams’ majestic
North from Mexico: The Spanish-Speaking People of the United States.
Though it celebrated its 60th anniversary this year, McWilliams’
effort continues to beat any Pew Hispanic Center study, National
Council on La Raza press release, or George Lopez monologue in explaining
why Mexicans and their descendants en los Estados Unidos act the
way they do, and why gabachos hate wabs so. Mixing little-known
history with thoughtful analysis and wonderful prose, North from
Mexico impresses with every reading, and has spawned a thousand
Chicano Studies monographs. More crucially, McWilliams was the first
gabacho who cared for Mexicans not for their tithes, cheap labor,
fecund wombs or taco specials, but as actual members of the American
fabric. Seriously, cabrones: this guy deserves a spot in the Mexican
Catholic pantheon along the Santo Niño de Atocha and Our Lady of
San Juan de los Lagos, and if you don’t have North from Mexico in
your library already, you’re no better than a Guatemalan.
Some columns ago, someone asked about Mexican comic books.
How about going a little more highbrow? Which Mexican poets who
aren't writing in English, contemporary or otherwise, would you
recommend to a gabacho looking to expand his literary horizons southward?
Right now I know of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz and Laura Solórzano,
and there's about 300 years between them. I'm looking for translations,
because I'm a lazy gabacho who doesn't know Spanish.
— No Good at Coming up with Witty Names, Either
Dear Gabacho: Highbrow, in this column? Who do you think I am —
Ruben Navarrette? I can give you but two poetas — one old, one timeless.
Ramon López Velarde died young in 1921, but his abstract, postmodern
poetry influenced generations of Mexican writers, and my fellow
jerezano’s “La suave patria” (roughly, “The Sweet Motherland”) remains
as hallowed an artistic celebration of Mexico as the films of Pedro
Infante or the Mexican national anthem. The University of Texas
released a translated López Velarde anthology a couple of years
ago, but his clever rhyming schemes, puns, and references disappeared
like decorum at a San Diego Minutemen meeting.
Easier to appreciate is the work of Jose Alfredo Jimenez, Mexico’s
greatest singer-songwriter. He understood the contradictory essence
of the Mexican soul — the drunken prophet, the weeping macho, the
embittered optimist, the jingoistic twerp — and captured it with
somber yet stirring couplets. If you want to read his lyrics, buy
Jose Alfredo Jimenez: Cancionero Completo (Complete Songbook), which
comes with a wonderful essay by the Mexican intellectual (yes, they
do exist) Carlos Monsivaís, but your gabacho ass needs to comprender
Spanish first. In the meanwhile, buy Jimenez’s albums (especially
the one he recorded with Banda El Recodo), pour some Herradura,
and let the holidays flow.