“Glen”

“Glen”

Dad was a big fan of Glen Campbell. That these formidable men have been afflicted by Alzheimer’s is still tough to fathom. Today, Mr. Campbell succumbed to this disease. He leaves behind generations of fans, a loving and supporting family and a legacy of art that is without compare.

I will never forget the sound of his music playing over the car radio as my family and I drove through the Southwestern desert on our way to visit family to Mexico in the early 1970s. My Dad would hum along, tapping the steering wheel, offering back-up. It was a late night, our family Impala cutting its path through the star-filled darkness. Dad didn’t know I was awake, his silent co-pilot, determined to remember it all.

Years later, before Mr. Campbell retired from touring, my siblings and I took Dad to see him perform live at the Pala Casino outside of San Diego. His own family shared the stage, with his daughter carefully guiding her legendary father through the songs. I remember holding back tears as my father smiled and tapped along to the music, clearly engaged by the Campbell musical experience like it was those many nights long ago.

Both men were in the throes of dealing with Alzheimer’s at that moment, never knowing what they had in common that evening. That one of these two men is no longer with us fills me with a surge of fills me with a surge of emotion. I am very blessed t still have my father in my life, despite the hardships of this disease. While Dad was far from being a rhinestone cowboy or a Wichita lineman, he still towers in my heart and life. And the music created by Mr. Campbell? It is a shame I can’t tell him it will forever be something so profound and poignant for my family and myself, now and forever. Thank you, Mr. Campbell, for leaving us this gift, too.

As posted on the Glen Campbell website: “In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Glen Campbell Memorial Fund at BrightFocus Foundation through the CareLiving.org donation page.

“In the end, family will prevail…”— #mexicanamericanhorrorstory

“In the end, family will prevail…”— #mexicanamericanhorrorstory

I read the text today, oh boy. These missives have a strange effect. Just when I feel we can all move on — someone feels the need to reach out to grab the spoon and stir the pot.

Face it, the soup is burned. The kettle is charred. Nothing is left to bubble or nurture when poured anymore. All we are doing is clanging an empty vessel.

So, these words, the last I hope to write on this issue for a long while until our unit is restored, are the ones that took flight today:

“There are always two sides to the “truth.” We choose the one that fits our needs. In the end, you are always left with one question: Why?

The losses incurred in this year are a heavy price to pay for unfounded pride & discontent.

Harsh judgments begat harsher punishments. Silence has turned to retribution. You can’t reprimand those as being judgmental and negative by offering nothing but judgment and negativity in return. Why didn’t you try to talk to us? Why cut us off at the knees? Why create a culture of divisiveness? It didn’t happen on its own. It took TWO sides to make that happen, not one.

Instead, you have chosen to place yourselves in the role of being the victim of an uncaring group. The reality, and it applies to us all, is that everyone had a role in this situation. The difference is you have yet to declare any accountability for your sins. I know what I’ve done and I take responsibility for it. All we’ve seen from you is a litany of bad self-help manualspeak: blame shifting, rancor and an incredible amount of self-absorption.

We can surround ourselves with all that we perceive as promoting happiness or positivity. But cutting off those perceived to harm you will create a phantom limb. Something will always be missing & your happiness will be rendered incomplete. You may not give a shit, but give it time.

“Yes People” are not honest people. They only exist to maintain to promote a false sense of peace and completion. What happens when they fail you? Do you keep finding and running through other people, cutting anyone off who dares to compromise your fortress?

We had so much to learn and gain from each other. Now we may never know what peak we could have reached as a group.

I refuse to think this is the end. Because the only true finish is in death. This story can be rewritten in all of our favors.

Who will be the one to prove the pen is mightier than the sword? Can anyone make sense of us now?

I know the power of words. But the heart is stronger. Hope is strongest.

I choose to believe in hope, even if this story is paused indefinitely. Let time heal that which feels toxic or broken. Family will prevail.”

I can’t let any of this go. I am torn between anger and the desire to make things right. Why fight for people who consider you the enemy? Why not just walk away and find somewhere else to live without the bitter aftertaste of people acting like fucking idiots, people that are supposed to share your blood.

At times, I think about just cutting ties with everyone except the one person in this entire shit show who understands the importance of rolling with life’s punches. I think of Spain. I think of Nashville. I think of anywhere but here. But that’s running away and I’ve seen the effects of not realizing a dream or goal or anything that requires a plan. No matter where you go, what you’re running from will continue to haunt you until you face it square on and without fear of failure.

I don’t share the cynicism of the others, nor do I choose to agree with the arrogant superiority of being “right” about “them.” I wish they all could see how foolish we all look from the outside.

We’re the Mexican-American Horror Story…and I won’t be its clown.

Happy Halloween.

Friday, October 31. Los Angeles, CA

#stayhere #lifeisart

Lo que es ser latino. (Cuentos de la vida real)

Lo que es ser latino. (Cuentos de la vida real)

Ser latino es ser una persona emocionado. Pasión es la calentura que vive en nosotros. Es la raíz de nuestro archivo cultural, en donde encontramos material para telenovelas hasta el fin del tiempo.

No quiero disminuir el impacto de la emoción latina. Lo digo porque soltamos nuestros emociones porque no las tenemos miedo en expresarlas.

En la novela chicana, La casa en Mango Street, la niña Esperanza enfrenta las emociones de su calle con ojos y pensamientos bien claras. Para ella, lo emoción es ser humano. Somos débil, con deseos en proteger el imagen de ser un adulto maduro.

Mi mamá, una persona quien es la imagen de ser la mujer latina fuerte, prefiere tragar sus emociones que expresarlas con una lagrima. Pero en el 1977, recuerdo del momento que la vi llorar por la primera vez. Murió su hermana Carlota. Estuvieron peleadas sobre algo que se dejó en el pasado. Ni recuerdo los detalles.

Yo contesté el teléfono, la llamé porque estaba afuera de la casa. La llamada era de Tampico. No entendí mucho pero supe que era algo importante. Mi mamá se presentó, había un silencio y de repente se tumbó al piso.

Ahí, en sus rodillas, fue todo el peso de su emoción, el remordimiento y la tristeza.

Sentí que el mundo cambió en un breve instante. Mi mamá no era de fierro. Era una persona normal, con emociones como las mías. Nunca me sentí mas cerca de ella.

Ahora entendí como es ser alguien sin temor. Se me salió lo que es ser latino ese día. Tomé su mano para darla mi apoyo como su hijo de dos mundos distintos.

“El día que mi padre me olvidó”/”The Day My Dad Forgot Me”

“El día que mi padre me olvidó”/”The Day My Dad Forgot Me”

Mi nombre es Jorge. En el barrio de mi nacimiento, todavía soy “George,” pero ya no me identifico come ese muchacho del ayer. Soy Jorge, pero no soy el original. Yo soy el segundo Jorge porque llevo ell nombre de mi padre. Mi madre quería llamarme Alejandro pero nací para llevar la marca de ser el primer hombre en una familia sencilla. El orgullo me nombró, no la poesía o el romance.

Llevar el nombre de mi padre tiene una gran responsabilidad. Como todas las cosas buenas, los griegos inventaron “Jorge.” Per mis padres Jorge y Lilia Carreón Ramirez crearon esta versión. El origen de mi nombre representa lo que es un granjero o una persona que cultiva la tierra. Ni siquiera puedo cuidar una planta. Sin embargo, esto me dirige a usar una metáfora. Las palabras son lo que yo cultivo porque soy periodista. Yo cuento las historias de personas que tú conoces para ver en la tele o leer en la Internet. Creo que eso me hace un granjero de los medios.

Siendo el segundo Jorge de mi familia es una historia diferente, una historia que no llevo a contar al mundo. Nunca pensé que mi padre y yo teníamos muchas características en común. Siempre estuvimos en una guerra de ideología. Ahora soy mayor y empiezo a darme cuenta de lo que tenemos en común. Como la mayoría de los hombres latinos, vivimos en nuestros recuerdos. Es como si fuéramos granjeros cultivando la tierra que da vida a nuestro´árbol genealógico.

Ahora mi padre está enfermo. Su mente está borrándose lentamente en una manera insidiosa. Un día no voy a ser el segundo Jorge, pero el primero. Es por eso que tengo que recordar todo relacionado con él y con nosotros. Porque ser Jorge es mas que compartir el mismo nombre de mi padre. Ser Jorge es vivir como el conservador de la historia de mi familia.

Porque anoche, al final de la fiesta de cumpleaños de mi hermana mayor, mi padre se olvidó de mi por la primera vez. Me dio su mano, como si yo fuera un desconocido, no su hijo mayor, no el que lleva su nombre. En ese momento, si cambio todo porque reconocí que sí, mi nombre contiene poesía y romance.

Porque llegó el día de ser Jorge el primero.

Domingo 28 de septiembre 2014. En mi casa en South Pasadena, CA


My name is Jorge. People still call me “George,” especially in the neighborhood where I grew up, located in the shadow of downtown Los Angeles. I’m Jorge, but I’m not the First. I am the Second Jorge because I carry my father’s name, a junior version. My mom wanted to name me “Alejandro,” but I was born to carry the name of our patriarch, the first boy born of immigrants in their new country. Pride named me, not a sense of poetry or romance.

To carry your father’s name is a huge responsibility. Like all good things on this earth, it was the Greeks who invented Jorge. But my parents, Jorge and Lilia Carreon Ramirez, created this version. The origin of my name is supposed to mean “farmer” or a person who cultivates the ground. I can’t even take care of a plant. Regardless, this does lead me to use a metaphor. I cultivate words and images because I am a journalist. I tell the stories about people you know to watch on TV or read on the Internet. Maybe that makes me a farmer with the media as my expanse of land to nurture?

Being Jorge the Second is a different story, one I never intended to tell to the world. Not really. Yet reasons exist why I can admit that I never thought my father and I had much in common. We were always locked in a battle of ideology. Now that I am older, I see what we do share and it is more than the name. Like all Latino men, we live in our memories. It is as if we are a special brand of cultivators, tasked with the preservation of our family trees.

My father has Alzheimer’s. His mind is slowly being erased in the most insidious manner. Since the day he was diagnosed, I knew that at some point I would no longer be Jorge the Second, but the First. That is why I have to record all that is Us before his files are completely emptied of data.

Because being Jorge is not just sharing the same name.

Being Jorge is living as the chief chronicler of my family.

Because last night, at the end of my older sister’s birthday party, my father forgot who I was to him.

He offered me his hand to shake, smiling and saying “It was nice meeting you.” Sure, it was a polite and friendly gesture. He meant it. That was the version of Jorge for when he met people he liked. But it was more than that, because I recognized that my name does carry poetry and romance.

Last night, I became Jorge the First.

Sunday, September 28. Posted in Spanish and English from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA