Un Oscar para “A Better Life” – Reseña de Cine

Por Raúl Caballero García

Demián Bichir recién este jueves, entrevistado por Carmen Aristegui, dijo que “A Better Life” es la película que menos éxito ha tenido en taquilla, tanto en México como en EU, lo cual resulta un tanto paradójico toda vez que es la cinta que lo catapulta como ninguna, luego de que la Academia de Ciencias y Artes lo nominó para un Óscar como mejor actor. (Para ver un clip: http://oscar.go.com/nominees/actor-in-a-leading-role/demian-bichir)

Bichir ha señalado asimismo que cuando Chris Weitz le propuso actuar en ella y leyó el guión, aceptó porque palpó que era un filmeprofundo... y vaya que lo es. Aunque no lo parezca. De entrada pareciera que es una película más con el tema de los inmigrantes mexicanos en Estados Unidos, pero a medida que avanza su narrativa, el espectador va digiriendo elementos y detalles que le permiten percibir que se trata de algo ciertamente no superficial.

Supongo que en eso estriba el talento del director. Weitz nos obliga a reflexionar, nos deja pensando aún después de que terminó la proyección, incluso cuando ya estamos afuera del cine. Cuando la vi hace unos meses fui acompañado por Valentina, mi hija de 13 años, quien todavía suele preguntar —siguiendo una costumbre recurrente durante su infancia— “¿cuál fue tu parte favorita?”. Uf, en una comedia no hay pierde, se puede elegir felizmente una “parte favorita”, pero con “A Better Life” uno termina por explicar(se) toda la película. Más si uno tiene la dicha de ser mexicano y, además, la experiencia de vivir en Estados Unidos.

Sí, es cierto, es asombroso cómo en dos horas logran captar el mundo de los inmigrantes indocumentados con muchas de sus vicisitudes y muchos de sus valores. Pero además al hacerlo logran que rebosen precisamente esos aspectos que hacen al ser humano valioso, exponen el “lado humano” de un puñado de personajes —que representan el microcosmos de la diáspora de mexicanos en los Estados Unidos— subsistiendo la realidad cotidiana, en este caso, en Los Ángeles.

Asumo que los lectores ya han tenido muchas oportunidades de leer críticas y reseñas de esta película, lo que hace que estos apuntes sean más sueltos puesto que no se escriben con ese afán, sino en todo caso con uno celebratorio dado que considero que es una cinta para preservar en las filmotecas familiares.

Bichir hace de un jardinero indocumentado que se llama Carlos Galindo, separado de la madre de su hijo adolescente que se llama Luis, personificado por el joven actor José Julián. Padre e hijo viven juntos en una casa bastante humilde. El hijo camina al filo de la navaja, es decir, está en ese punto en que muchos jóvenes toman la resolución crucial, conscientes o no, de quiénes serán en la vida.

Tiene ante sí un ambiente difícil, el de la pobreza, y apenas un paso más allá del entorno familiar está el mundo de las pandillas... destino que pareciera inevitable para Luis y sin embargo es uno de los vuelcos con que Weitz nos sacude y abre lo inesperado de las posibilidades.

Aquí hago un paréntesis para rescatar de la sala de cine una situación entre los espectadores. En la función a la que asistimos Valentina y yo, la sala estaba si no llena del todo sí con una buena entrada. Yo acudí sabiendo del contenido de la cinta porque mi esposa, quien ya la había visto, me la recomendó, así que cuando noté que quienes ocupaban los asientos que nos rodeaban eran en su mayoría angloamericanos, la curiosidad me hizo estar atento a cómo recibirían esta película.

Bueno abrí el paréntesis cuando recordé una escena del filme en que por un pleito, Luis se ve en una demarcación policiaca siendo interrogado por un detective que lo encasilla de buenas a primeras como miembro de una pandilla. El oficial no ve otra cosa teniendo ante sí a un joven latino, da por hecho que es un pandillero, y no acepta que el chavo no pertenezca a una pandilla, le resulta inconcebible, por lo que se empecina en querer ver sus tatuajes y con ello determinar la pandilla a la que pertenezca; tampoco acepta la palabra del Luis de que no tiene tatuajes.

Ofuscado termina obligándolo a quitarse la camisa para ver los mentados tatuajes... pero oh sorpresa, el torso del chavo está limpio, ciertamente no tiene ningún tatuaje... y en este punto destaco que además de un rumor entre los espectadores emocionados por la limpieza de Luis, una mujer a mis espaldas soltó un algo así como “¡tómala!”.

Y es que en la película una vicisitud lleva a otra y la suma propone una ecuación y luego otra que el director resuelve saliéndose de todo cliché. Son las vicisitudes cotidianas en el mundo de los inmigrantes.

Carlos Galindo, es un hombre noble, de una rectitud a toda prueba que trabaja todo el día con la expectativa de que su hijo tenga un mejor futuro. Carlos llegó de México, Luis nació en EU, es la situación de millones y en esto radica el eje de la cinta, en la relación entre padre e hijo que se capta en los días en que aflora esa resolución de Luis que mencionamos antes, pues cobra conciencia de la razón vital del padre, una vida mejor, la suya, la de ambos, la de la familia, la de la comunidad. En un vaivén de emociones, en una sucesión de dilemas y problemas y situaciones dramáticas, que van de las sombras en que vive, resguardado, Carlos, a la luz que lo desampara. Una invisibilidad que Weitz expone tan bien que al mismo tiempo muestra la problemática de los trabajadores indocumentados a través de esos días en que Carlos y Luis son separados por la deportación de aquél cuando acaban de encontrarse, justo a raíz de la mencionada resolución del chavo.

Pero el padre ha venido dándole una lección tras otra de la manera más transparente, sólo siendo, sólo viviendo su naturaleza, siendo el hombre que es, uno trabajador y honesto.

“Lo más duro es adoptar esa personalidad casi invisible que estás obligado a tener, que te has autoimpuesto tú, para no llamar demasiado la atención porque en cuanto tú llames la atención vas a tener que responder sobre tu estatus migratorio y a mostrar documentación que no tienes”, dijo Bichir en otra entrevista hablando de su personaje.

“A Better Life” tiene todos los elementos que si el director no tiene la idea precisa de lo que quiere proyectar, caería irremediablemente en el terreno de lo cursi, en un bodrio sentimental... pero por fortuna el tratamiento del director, la caracterización de los actores, la precisión del guión nos dan una película no sólo bien hecha sino impactante.

Si este domingo Bichir recibe el Óscar significará mayor beneficio para su carrera (y sin duda dará singular relevancia a la Academia pues marcaría un hito histórico), pero con o sin premio su carrera ya se ha visto beneficiada con la nominación, y la película por su sola realización ya cumplió con su cometido al proyectarse.

Raúl Caballero García es es director editorial de La Estrella Digital y La Estrella de Dallas-Fort Worth. Ademas de ser escritor y periodista mexicano, ha publicado dos libros de poesía: El agua inmóvil y  Viento Habitable. Se encuentra al rcaballero@laestrelladigital.com.

Arizona: The End of the Stairway – The Abandonment of the Barrio

By Rodolfo F. Acuña

With a commentary by Roberto Haro

Prof. Acuña sets out critical questions and concerns about the future of Mexican American education, seeking to rally others to address these matters as a community of scholars and activists. Can we take this crisis into our own hands? A critique by colleague, Roberto Haro, opens up other dimensions. We welcome further discussions.

Throughout the history of Mexican Americans, education has been considered the stairway to the middle-class. Education meant security and basics such as health insurance. This heaven meant better jobs and a small house or two for old age.

As with the European immigrant, the stairway was built in stages. Those with limited education could often get union jobs. After a generation or two in factories, Mexican Americans accumulated sufficient capital to keep their children in school, and a few sent them to college.

To build the stairway, workers and their families fought for compulsory education, they petitioned school boards, and led walkouts protesting de jure and de facto school segregation.

Mutalistas, el Congreso Mexicanista, Alianza Hispano-Americano, La Liga Protectora Latina, League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), led campaigns for better schools. George I. Sánchez was a giant in advocating for this stairway.

However, it was not until the 1960s that Chicano youth forced major breakthroughs. The Mexican American Youth Organization (MAYO) walkouts, the East LA School Walkouts, and small walkouts throughout the southwest and elsewhere had similar themes -- better education, more college prep classes, more Mexican American teachers, and the teaching of Mexican American Studies.

As a result Mexican Americans went to college in greater numbers. In 1968 there were about 100 Latino PhDs – a decade later they were an identifiable mass. In the intervening years at Cal State Northridge the Latino student population exploded from about 50 in 1969 to some 11,000 today.

Despite the gains the Latino dropout rate remains at about 60 percent; most barrio schools still offer a limited number of college prep classes. A larger portion of Latino students are being recruited and admitted from parochial, magnet and schools on the fringes of the barrio. Few males are enrolling. In some universities the ratio of Latino female/male is 65/35.

Like the nation’s roads, the Mexican American stairway to the middle-class heaven has fallen into disrepair. There are potholes everywhere. Outreach and special programs have become expendable and are under attack. The excuse is the budget.

Many Latino students could only afford college through financial assistance. However, early on financial aid was diluted by expanding the eligibility for assistance while shrinking funding.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was the rising tuition. Without financial aid and loans, the bridge is beginning to tumble. At the California State Universities tuition will rise to $10,000 a year, which will put education out of the reach of students from barrio schools.

Putting this in perspective, I paid about $10 a year at Los Angeles State in the late 1950s; in 1969 fees amounted to about $50 a semester.

American corporations simply refuse to pay for the cost of social production. The baby boom generation that benefited from free education, the GI Bill, low interest housing, low gas and food prices, selfishly do not want to pay for the education of the young.

Mexico graduates more engineering students than the United States. Among sixteen 16 First World nations, the United State ranks number 13th in affordability.

At the beginning of the last century, Mexican workers were excluded from unions and relied on self-help organizations. This became more difficult as the nation became highly urbanized.

The Americans consider themselves a generous people, and certain Americans are. However, this generosity does not extend to the poor. A few will give to the homeless on Christmas and feel somewhat less guilty, as long as it does not interfere with their Christmas meal. They give through organizations that qualify them for tax exemptions.

Historically Latinos have had a small middle-class. They are generous to family members. However, there is not a tradition of contributing to philanthropic organizations. Selected immigrant groups send money back to their communities, such as the Clubes Unidos Zacatecanos that remit billions of dollars annually to Zacatecas.

Latinos usually give through their churches. But, philanthropy is seen as foreign to most Latinos, especially Mexican Americans. They are concentrated in the working class. At the turn of this century, 25.8 percent of Mexican-born immigrants lived in poverty, over double the rate for natives.

According to one report, “[c]urrently, 53 percent of Latino households make charitable contributions to charities as opposed to 72 percent of all U.S. households.” It could be argued that comparisons are not fair. Poverty plays a role, as does the tax code where the middle-class get write offs. The reason Mexicans give for not contributing more is that they are not asked.

Let’s face it; we all owe our careers to the stairway. Without that stairway we would not have a middle-class to broker our gains in population into political and economic power. National Latino and Hispanic organizations cater to the middle class.

Keeping the stairway somewhat operable will be the greatest challenge for Latinos. Let us not be naïve and believe that everything will return to as it was in 1970 or 80. Tuition will continue to spiral. In California, fifty percent of the professors’ salaries and operational costs are derived from student tuition.

Surely administrators are blame for the inflation with university presidents earning in excess of $300,000 annually with perks. The bureaucracies in the university makes navigating them near impossible, and professor salaries at the top are near $100,000 annually and more.

I will not argue that professor salaries are not justified, just that they are part of the problem. I ask myself, would most teacher unions oppose plans to begin alternative institutions that did not include teacher contracts?

After long deliberation I have come to the conclusion that whether teacher unions or others like it or not, we have to find our own solutions. The maintenance of the stairway should be our first priority.

Presently Latino education is not very high on the priority list of progressives in this country. Perhaps they have seen too many movies on the Alamo.

I am under attack for a statement that I made in the early 1990s when educational access was again being limited. I said that we would not allow ourselves to be pushed into the intellectual ovens of ignorance and lack of opportunity. Education is a basic right, and we who are active with youth know the consequences of not being able to read.

The stairway represents the only hope for many.

In the near future we will be making a call for Latinos and others to come to a meeting to explore the possibility of starting a non-profit university that would keep the costs under $1,000 a year.

It is criminal how many for profit schools have sprung up in the past decade. Full-time students at for-profit schools paid an average of $30,900 annually in the 2007-2008 academic year. This was almost double the $15,600 average paid at public universities. The average cost of attending a private nonprofit college was $26,600.

If the government can allow such outlandish costs to be handed down to students then it can sanction real non-profit universities. The truth be told, universities and colleges have become as predatory as the loan sharks and Wall Street.

We will outline a plan which we will telecast throughout the nation in an effort to get retired teachers and professors to put together a non-profit institution. This is imperative because public education today is being privatized. Even at the California State Universities which were once called the “people’s college” there are for profit entities where students can get an alternative education – at a cost.

Rodolfo F. Acuña, Ph.D., was founding Chair of Chicano Studies, California State University Northridge, and a Professor there since 1969. Widely recognized for his scholarship and academic leadership, Acuña is author of the acclaimed work, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos, now in its sixth edition. Rutgers University Press published his latest book, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe, last year. Now in progress is an autobiography, titled, “Footprints: Fifty Years of Activism and Research.”

************

Commentary by Roberto Haro

While I agree with what Rudy writes, there are some critical factors that he omits. We tend to use the term "education" too broadly. When we talk about problems for Latinos/Chicanos in higher education, we should not omit the word "higher." The moment we do, K-12 is involved, and the agenda almost automatically shifts to issues and considerations about our children in the schools. While I agree that attention and energy must be devoted to K-12, we cannot allow our concerns about higher education for Raza to be subsumed by 'Education writ large.'

One of the most challenging conditions for Raza is the devastating decline of our males in college/university admission and degree attainment. Rudy is a historian, and is correct in looking back into our history to make comparisons and motivate us to become aware.  But he doesn't mention the deleterious effects of our males dropping out of high school, and not going to college. To the credit of our Chicanas/Latinas, they have made impressive gains in high school graduation rates, college admissions, and degree attainment. However, we cannot say the same for our males.

The flaccid emanations from the Obama Administration about improving the educational  attainment of Raza, and the condescending attitude of noblesse oblige among the leaders of major foundations and national higher education organizations substitutes for systematic and critical action and activities that must be funded and implemented to address and correct the obstacles Raza face. Right now, HACU is doing more for our community than the Beltway Bandits who profess to be Raza and our friends when in fact they, too, are part of the problem.

I could go on, but enough is plenty. Rudy is doing his part to be provocative. But now we need answers and strategies for action. And PLEASE, no more studies and reports about the problems!

Any comments?

En amistad,

Roberto

Roberto Haro is a retired professor, university administrator, and Chicano author/scholar/activist. Under the pen name, Roberto de Haro, he has written nine novels since retiring. His most recent novel, The Wayward Zephyr: A Cape Cod Romance (2011), tells of an engaging romance between a lovely New England woman and a successful Mexican American financier. Haro lives in Marin County, California.

Lipstick con Chorizo – A novel in serial form: Chapter 9

By Tommy Villalobos

Chapter 9

Ernie, first of the newly formed Doña Risna groupies to arrive at the meeting place, stood looking out at the garden lit by landscape lighting. He saw little but schemed much. He was on the verge of living a life he knew he always deserved. The clock struck one and he figured he was one-step closer to that deserving moment. Nothing could stop the moment. He was shuffling items of potential purchase through his mind, which included Stuart Hughes suits, five star eateries and luxury resorts around the globe. He wondered at the fact he had not seated himself in front of a computer and started exercising his new purchasing power.

Big moments bring big emotions. He leaned his trembling elbows on logic, concluding that his caretaker, Lydia, would not be prowling about at night. He knew that she valued her beauty sleep as a grizzly its hibernation. Still, the possibility was there knowing her capable of rising from the dead, when that occasion should arrive, if something moved her to a Lazarus moment. As the time came for the abduction of the animals of interest, his insubstantial body was involuntarily squirming here and there like an amateur belly dancer stirred into a dancing frenzy by an audience’s whoops.

The door opened without a sound and Pete entered without sound. She walked spiritedly yet quietly. She was Mark Sanchez coming up to the line of scrimmage. She was ready for audibles and safety blitzes. Petra Simala felt she was born for the challenges the night offered.

“¡Oye! ¿Cómo va?” she said with her voice level dial on High. In response, Ernie leaped and performed a fouetté turn that would have drawn the envy of a prima ballerina at the Vaganova Ballet Academy.

“¡Órale! You made my heart bounce around my chest, esa,” he said finishing his pirouette with a flourish. His eyes were finding it a challenge to stay in their respective sockets and the ground felt as if he were in the midst of at least a 6.1. “I didn’t think you did things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Sneaking up on someone and then scare them out of their chones.”

“But this is such a big night, dude. I’m excited to be alive and well in City Terrace.”

“Well, you almost made me dead in City Terrace with your grito at this hour. I think my heart stopped and had trouble restarting. ¿Y Doña Risna?”

“Oh, she’ll be shimmering in.”

“She’s already ten minutes late.”

“What’s ten minutes next to a load of chips?” said Pete as she went up close to him. She looked into the garden. “What were you thinking that you didn’t even notice I barged into the room? Happy thoughts, I hope. The future is bright. Even the flowers in the garden seem to be brighter. Look at the evening dew dancing off the Amaryllis petals under Lydia’s phony lights. Look at the spikey stamens of the bottlebrush. They’re radiant like pulsars from the far reaches of the heavens. ‘By length, I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long—no doubt they have never reckoned—’”

“¡Hijo, Pete!”

“Now’s not the time for poesy, eh? The mood is not quite right? Como dices. Pero, you have to admit it now seems a wondrous world that awaits us, flimsy garden and all. The stars all aligned to perfection. Our barrio is in that alignment. Let me tell you more, Ernie. No matter what you think, what you say, the glories of the universe are there every night, waiting for our tired eyes to behold. Keep that in mind. How come you’re floating around like a feather in front of a snoring politician? ¿Qué te pica? Are you having second thoughts? Misgivings? ¿Tienes miedo?”

“I need a trago.”

“Don’t. Hey, Jimmy,” Pete said as the door again swung open. “You have to help me with Ernie’s head which has gone south on us. His own shadow is giving him the creeps.”

Jimmy looked at Ernie as he would a whimpering puppy. His nerves were down to their threads, as well. He felt their exploits might make the crime section of his former newspaper, the Los Angeles Daily Times. He had reported on other’s crimes with the professional aloofness of a reporter, feeling superior to the poor souls who were dragged away by the arm of the law. Now he may be sharing skid marks and cells with them.

He also harbored notions that Lydia would pop up around every corner. After all, this was her house. Why should she not pop up here and there like a rabbit surveying its patch? She had obvious affection for her pets and it would be understandable that an excitable woman like Señora Telliz would expose her retractable claws to protect them and their whereabouts. He admired her fiery way of handling the smallest obstruction to her perceived road to happiness.

In the newspaper business, he had run into some full-time female hissers and kickers, but all would appear comatose next to Lydia Simala Telliz. She was the diva of tongue lashers and vase hurlers.

“Where’s Doña Risna,” he asked with a croak, for his throat felt as dry as if it crawled through the better part of the Sonora desert.

“She’s coming,” said Pete. “Her destiny lies with nosotros.”

Ernie made a sound resembling a camel with smoker’s cough.

“It looks like she is following a different destiny now. The minutes tick away and she might as well be back in that pueblo in Mexico flipping corn tortillas. You keep saying, ‘Ah, here she is,’ but I don’t see her. I’m going across the street to her house to see if she’s hiding under her bed, or her house. She’s a pain, always has been. If that’s the kind of old Mejicanas they’re putting out now, Mexico needs another revolution.”

He darted from the room and Pete shook her head like a battle-scarred boxer whose son declared his intention to become a maître d'.

“Ernie gets all emotional.”

“I think his reaction is justified,” said Jimmy. “I feel like bawling myself.”

Pete now grunted as if Jimmy had invited her to join him in a bawling jam.

“You men, what’s happened to your backbone? You see El Cucuy in every shadow and under every rock. Break a beer bottle at the neck, drink the contents, fling the bottle and let out a grito. Everything is going to be fine. Where’s your machismo, hombre?”

“Okay, my machismo is still in its developmental stage. And I feel like weeping a bit. In a manly way, but weeping is the only word that comes to mind. And I not only see El Cucuy lurking in shadows, but La Cosa Mala, The Thing, the Werewolf, Dracula, Blacula and Jason. I believe in diversity, even in my sustos. What if your awesome Mejicana is a no show?”

“She’ll be here.”

“What if she can’t steal the beasts?”

Pete felt like belting out a laugh, a risa to end all risas. She reported on the trial of one of the most meticulous people ever to orchestrate the taking of animals from their natural habitats, whether in the depths of a steamy jungle, high on some frigid mountain cliff or in the middle of a baking desert. The D.A. felt no polar bear, green viper or blue whale was safe from her fingertips and presented his case in such manner.

“She can snap them up before they know what hit them. She’s a first rate animal ladrona. You should have read my news story. I couldn’t find enough adjectives to describe her exploits. She got negative bravos from all news sources. Jimmy, stop being a whirligig. Siéntate.”

“¿De veras?”

“Raise my right hand and hope to prosper.”

“You really believe in her, don’t you?”

“I’d trust her on any job where a crooked mind and speedy hands were called for.”

Jimmy appeared appeased, the fear dissipating from his countenance.

“Pete, you always make me feel better. I feel like I’ve been sitting on my abuelita’s lap getting a pep talk.”

“Très bien.”

“You know, you don’t normally link traditional Mejicanas with international crime operations. That’s why I held reservations. I thought all abuelita types were preoccupied with was to go around saying, ‘¡Estate quieto!’ ‘Deja eso, ya,’ ‘Cállate la boca,’ ‘Cómo me duele mi espalda,’ and ‘Ya cuándo me muero, vas a ver.’ Never pictured one engaging in an international black market operation trading in exotic creatures. But if you vouch for the old chick, I got no problem. I feel a personal economic recovery coming on.”

“Let’s go dancing in the streets, singing about our coming economic recovery. Bailed out by a Grand Mejicana.”

“A merry duet. Pete, you know about mujeres and the care and feeding of, right?”

“I’ve been around one or two.”

“They like a bato with energetic cash flow, right?”

“Pulsating a toda madre.”

“And they like movers and shakers. A man who sticks his legs into his pants with ganas. A good, old-fashioned chingón. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Women find responsibility sexy.”

“So, if Doña Risna steals those animales and Ernie forks over thousands, if not millions, to us if we extort any and all documents from Lydia, and I become a big-time agent with several caruchas, a gigantic chante, and enough money to make any colchón soft and comfortable, it should change things. ¿Qué te parece? Con Margarita, I mean. Will she look at me differently?”

“She’ll jump into your brazos, and say, ‘My dude, mi bato, my homie, my knight, mi hombre, let’s go shopping.’”

“That’s what I thought. I’m aiming for that response from her. But we need Doña Risna for it all to happen.”

“Nobody else will do.”

“Without Doña Risna, we’re lost, sunk, crushed, frozen, done for, and thwarted.”

“Immobilized to the max.”

“So, after all this neat analysis, dónde a la fregada está la vieja? Hey!” said Jimmy, breaking current form as the door creaked open.

It was, however, not the missing vieja, but Margaret who came through the doorway. She was appealing, wearing a blue dressing gown over eggshell colored pajamas and gold sandals with raised heels. Any other time, Jimmy’s eyes would have danced like Gabriel Iglesias’ eyes after spotting an unguarded, triple-layered cake. He looked at her with disappointment for not being the Grand Mejicana who ripped off apes dangling from jungle vines.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said.

“And ‘Oh’ to you too,” said Margaret. “¿Y Doña Risna?”

Pete, too, was disappointed.

“You should be in bed and dreaming about love and marriage,” she said. “I’ve heard enough queries regarding the whereabouts of one Doña Risna.”

“Sí, mi sargento, but I’m here, so let me stay.”

“Well, I don’t want you to get used to roaming about at all hours, becoming a vagabunda. Sit down and stay out of the way. Or, better yet, go bake some cookies.”

“Cookies after all the grub you ate at that dinner?”

“I always want galletas,” said Pete. Her mind returned to grinding out evaluations. She stared at Margaret as if she were the subject of a possible story on wayward young women or, at least, confused ones.

“An eye-catching pipsqueak, ain’t she, Jimmy? Check out those pouty yet kissable lips.”

“Noted.”

‘Gracias, Tía Pete. Makes my millennium that you described then ordained the employment of my lips.”

Jimmy could not resist. The disappointment of not seeing Doña Risna, the supreme animal snapper, come through the door had abated. He now imagined Margaret and him, after some little squabble that comes with all marriages, sitting in their very own sala, she wearing those same pouty yet kissable lips.

“What a woman!” he was inspired to say. “Woman? No mere mortal woman, but a small serving of heaven. A spirit in human form. Venus, Helen of Troy and Yvonne Delarosa all in one neat package.”

“What lovelorn Jimmy is trying to mutter,” explained Pete, “is that you are a knockout and should be on every cover of Latina magazine. Mere words are not enough to encompass any feeble attempt to fashion an adept description of your physical attributes. We need a symphony written for you. A painter commissioned to detail your matchless features. Jimmy, I bet you would not hesitate to travel the world telling folks about her singular beauty.”

“Wouldn’t stop until every person was properly informed.”

“Those lips, that nose, such eyes, and throw in that brow, could launch a thousand lowriders.”

“Each vehicle packed with homies.”

Margaret sat down in a chair facing the garden, throwing her head back in exact duplication in form as Lydia, her mother. And like her Tía Petra, she was rough and ready, confident of the ensuing project, not overly concerned like the two timorous fellows.

“I hope you two have stopped verbalizing my countenance and—”

“Stop?” said Pete. “How can there be an end to such an undertaking? The Oxford English Dictionary, the big, fat one, is wanting in providing the lexicon needed to touch on your features. Look at her profile, Jimmy. Such a visage belongs in marble resting on a pedestal and sitting pretty in some museum. Nay, not just any museum, but the Louvre.”

Jimmy gave an eager nod.

“That’s the first thing that would strike an art collector—that profile obviously suggested by the seraphim hovering above The Throne. ‘Golly!’ that collector might cry out, rubbing his or her eyes for his or her second look.”

“And den’, and den’?” said Margaret.

“Jimmy feels faint every time he sees that profile,” said Pete. “He is the picture of helplessness, breaking out in a fever and laid up for days. Wonder it hasn’t happened here.

“¿Qué hubo, Ernie? Where was she hiding?”

Ernie entered, appearing more out of sorts than ever. The continuing absence of the Grand Mejicana was starting to wear on his mind although Lydia would say it had long worn away.

“She’s vanished into thick air. She’s not in her house. Where can the woman be?” He ended with a now familiar leap, his face corpse like. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A spooky noise. At the puerta. Someone or something walking in the garden.”

“It’s okay, Ernie,” said Pete. “It has to be Doña Risna. She’s the only one not present. Betcha a dollar. Sí es Doña Risna,” she finished with a flourish of her hand as the dignified and august figure materialized from a dark shadow of the garden. “Buenas noches,” Pete said.

“Buenas noches, Señorita,” said the Grand Mejicana.

To be continued…

Tommy Villalobos, who lives in Northern California, is taking the plunge with Somos en escrito by submitting his first novel for publication in serial form (think Carlos Dickens without the pence per word). His droll humor and keen eye for the Chicanan cultura paint in rapid strokes caricatures that only an abuelita could love but imbue his obras with a loving warmth as well. Let’s continue to read along as Lipstick con Chorizo unfolds.

Lipstick con Chorizo – A novel in serial form: Chapter 8

By Tommy Villalobos

Chapter 8

The door slammed shut followed by Ernie’s own rendition of La Llorona, which made an impression on those remaining in the room. The cries and moans emanating from Ernie sent chills up and down the spine. Doña Risna had described Lydia Telliz as appearing horrified upon finding anyone snooping in her bedroom. Ernie at the moment did her one up, as he resembled a horrified ostrich. His eyes were bulging from his narrow head and his bones appeared to be protruding from various portions of his clothes.

Pete was wobbling as she paced around the room, thinking about the unknown documents now in possession of a known hothead.

“¡Híjole!” said Pete. “She expertly snapped that big envelope from you, Ernie!”

Ernie had plopped down next to Jimmy on the sofa.

“No one respects property rights anymore!” he cried. His slight frame was undulating beneath his wrinkled suit. “I’ll…I’ll Twitter this. Splatter it across Facebook. I’ll tell WikiLeaks.”

“No wonder she landed a rich lawyer,” said Jimmy.

“She still shouldn’t do this,” said Ernie.

“Her life is a trail of ‘shouldn’t’s,’” said Pete. “This is just one more.”

She crossed the room and opened the door. Her motto always had been No Te Dejes, which led to many schoolyard scrapes, mostly with boys. It took her only moments to ask herself, “What would Villa do?” and answer, “Pancho Villa would have mounted an offensive, calling in reserves for miles around to report and not getting off his horse until he saw the dust of retreating Federales.”

Pete was ready to mount. She stuck her head out the door.

“¡Doña Risna! ¡Doña Risna!”

If someone had something you wanted and you wanted to get it, the best thing you could do is call on someone who had once made a good living taking somethings from someone’s. That element of Doña Risna’s mind was a terrible thing to waste, concluded Pete.

Pete was going to use Villa as a business model. She would put her sister in retreat yelling for mercy whilst holding her in a psychological headlock.

Ernie was still moaning. He rubbed his knees in frustration.

“I’ll contact Council of La Raza and Homeboy Industries. I’ll let Lowrider y Teen Angels magazines know what happened. They’ll get madder than me.”

Pete looked at him with the distractedness of a mother.

“¡Ya cállate, Ernie!”

“I won’t shut up about this. I’ll call Tony Villaraigosa.”

“Cálmate,” said Pete. “It’s part of show biz, as Señor Lura would say. Doña Risna!”

Like a phantasm, the Grand Mejicana had suddenly reappeared. She was standing at the doorway.

“¿Me llamaste, Señorita?”

“Sí, entra, Doña Risna,” said Pete. “Now is the time for all good Mejicanas to come to the aid of la Revolución. Or, in this case, to the aid of Ernie.”

“¿Señorita?”

“Ernie, have you ever attended a criminal trial?”

As far as a Grand Mejicana could, Doña Risna gulped. Her eyes widened as she looked upon Pete as she would have looked upon her long dead and favorite husband Guillermo had he come tangoing into the room.

“¡Señorita, por favor!”

Pete continued as if Doña Risna were not present.

“I attended one that got Doña Risna hard time.”

“Señorita, me hiciste la promesa—”

“You know what got her that time in the ol’ cárcel? Do you how she earned her way into the university of Corona for wicked women, which is actually in Chino? The illegal toting of endangered species.”

She might have thought she would get a strong reaction, but could not have anticipated it in detail. Ernie quit dribbling spittle out of the sides of his mouth and stared at the Grand Mejicana as if seeing her for the first time. Margarita let out a tiny yap then joined in the staring. Jimmy said, “Huh?” He then also joined in the parlor game of the moment—looking at Doña Risna analytically in the course of reassessing her station in life.

Doña Risna stared at Pete in disbelief much as Caesar must have looked upon Brutus as the stunned emperor was being employed as a human pincushion. The disappointment and shock in the woman’s eyes made Pete feel like she should follow up with something nice.

“Forgive us, Doña Risna, we had to,” she said, “we’re in the middle of a critical batalla.”

Ernie was inspired to speak.

“Doña Risna,” he said, truly impressed, “deals in stolen animals? Our sweet and cuddly Doña Risna?”

“Big time. No one better, from what I heard in court.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Absolutely. That’s what this is all about. Doña Risna, you’re our Joan of Arc with a few wrinkles and pounds for good measure.”

Still in shock, Doña Risna regained a sufficient amount of the Grand Mejicana in her to repeat her key word.

“¿Señorita?”

“We want you to steal Matta, Leo, Pocha and Bocón then test the market. You know, those flea-bitten uglies Lydia gives sickening cariños to. See what you can get for them. Then get back to us.”

“Pero Señorita, I’m rehabilitated. That’s what they told me when I left Corona.”

“Here’s your chansa to prove them wrong.”

Doña Risna now stiffened as Ernie had done earlier, although dispensing with the forty-five degree angle of the head. She needed all her vision. It was the words Matta, Leo, Pocha and Bocón, all signifying valued property of Señora Telliz, that had gone right through her. The words of a poet who she could not recall under the current stress, and who she had read while guest of the State at Corona, seared through her brain:

“He that taketh but once, loseth his right hand; but he that taketh twice, keepeth his left hand, but loseth his head.”

A Grand Mejicana that has been thrown from the hearth for being in Señora Telliz’s recámara does not come back for more. You could ask Señora Rosa Calatarudo Risna aka Doña Risna to rip off Bo, the First Dog, while President Obama slept, but Señora Telliz’s pets were rip-off proof.

“No, Señorita,” she said raising her head now, but only slightly.

“Be a pal.”

“No, Señorita.”

“Fíjate, Doña Risna. You will forever be known throughout the annals of East Los as the woman who wouldn’t help a poor family in need. You’ll end up like La Llorona. You’ll be the latest apparition Mejicana mothers will use to inflict discipline and fear into the hearts of their niños. People will hear your moans in the night, children in bed will cover their heads. Do you prefer that legacy to giving a little ayuda to a hurting family?”

“Sí, Señorita.”

“Darn it,” said Pete, “it almost slipped ma’ mind. I forgot to tell you that it pays forty thousand.”

Doña Risna swayed. Then she thought that forty thousand is a lot for a poor family in need to come up with. Still, forty thousand is forty thousand. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you and judge not lest ye be judged, flashed through her mind. Grand Mejicanas know a good thing when they see it. The memory of Lydia’s face and her flaming words and color when she caught her in her recámara began to evaporate. Grand Mejicanas can’t be bought but at forty thousand, they can be rented.

“Whew, that’s a neat pile, Señorita,” said Doña Risna, invigorated, releasing a gust of air.

“And a big one, too,” said Ernie, attempting to be more precise while, at the same time, fiscally concerned.

Pete gave him her “Oh, shut up!” look. He was quibbling over forty thousand when millions were at stake.

“Consider it a helper’s fee,” she said. “This is no time to pinch pennies. Doña Risna has to be aware that we’re a big-time operation. Forty thousand, all crisp and all somewhat green with decorative coloring, Doña Risna.”

“Forty thousand,” the Grand Mejicana said reverently as if repeating a saint’s name.

“You in?”

“Sí, Señorita.”

Everyone in the room breathed with a sigh of relief, sounding like a shivering huddle of winos that has just collected enough for a jug of wine.

“Bueno,” said Pete. “Here’s the deal. Ernie found the treasure.”

“¡Ay, Dios mío!”

Pete put her arm around her.

“Great news, eh? Like having a rotting muela removed. So here we are. Ernie found the box with the treasure but with legal documents that might have bearing on it all. Señora Telliz ripped the documents from Ernie’s shaky hands and went off somewhere with them.”

The times she had had to face a fierce Lydia in her bedroom had Doña Risna falling prey to fear at the mention of her name at such a delicate and sensitive moment. But the figure of forty thousand quickly found its way back into her head and Lydia now took on the form of a slobbering baby waving a stick of candy.

“You want me to jump her, give her a few good cachetadas and get it back?”

“Not even. We in this here operation make the best use of our personnel. We want you to whisk away those beasts of hers and put them for sale on E-bay or wherever you black market types vend your animals. Then we’ll have leverage with Lydia. She’ll do anything short of giving up her self-love in order to get back her creatures.”

“Matta, Leo, Pocha and Bocón?”

“Yeah, them. We’ll gather here a la una de la mañana. By then, Lydia should be snoring and snorting through one of her delusional dreams where she is crowned Miss World Latina or Latina Most People, Including Men, Would Like To Be.”

“Una de la mañana. Muy bien, Señorita. ¿Es todo, Señorita?”

“That’s it.”

“Gracias, Señorita.”

“Gracias a ti, Doña Risna.”

“Pete,” cried Ernie, “you are something to watch. Like seeing someone grab a leg of lamb from a pit bull without losing their own leg.”

“Bravo!” said Margaret with a clap. “An artist at work.”

“Excellent,” said Jimmy.

“It’s more than all that,” said Ernie.

“I’m the light in your darkness, honey in your tea, angel sitting on your shoulder,” said Pete. “Call me Sly Girl.”

Lydia stepped in. She was smiling as the proud possessor of maps and documents that could lead a lucky and special someone to a small fortune. The imperious demeanor returned as she surveyed the room.

“Petra, those overalls!” she barked. “Señor Paralado’s limo will be pulling up anytime now.”

“¡Discúlpame!” said Pete. “My mind was on fast cars and slow men. I will go change into something to raise eyebrows instead of lowering eyes.”

“¡Apúrate!”

“Bottled lightning, mi Lydia, bottled brown lightning.”

To be continued…

Tommy Villalobos, who lives in Northern California, is taking the plunge with Somos en escrito by submitting his first novel for publication in serial form (think Carlos Dickens without the pence per word). His droll humor and keen eye for the Chicanan cultura paint in rapid strokes caricatures that only an abuelita could love but imbue his obras with a loving warmth as well. We’ll read along as Lipstick con Chorizo unfolds.