Back to School with Common Core

Back to School with Common Core

One evening at a Mexican restaurant in Poulsbo, I picked up a copy of some Spanish language newspaper (La Raza?). I always feel that eating in a Mexican restaurant is more meaningful if you browse through the latest news on inmigración or fútbol while munching on your chips y salsa. This was towards the end of August, so the start of school was just around the corner.  Appropriately enough, the periódico had a headliner about Los Estándares Académicos—the Common Core State Standards.  Let’s call them the EAs from now on.

These have been looming on the horizon for some time, creating a mixture of anticipation and dread.  I don’t encounter too many people that express a genuine excitement about them, although it seems the younger teachers are more accepting of and, sometimes, enthusiastic about them.  We older teachers, battle-weary after decades of standards writing, revising, word-smithing, aligning, spiraling, assessment writing, and testing are a little less eager to face yet another revolutionary program.

Some people, not necessarily educators, seem to view the oncoming CC with actual fear.  To test this, I did an internet search (using Bing for a change) on “Common Core State Standards” and got a whopping 151 million results. I then followed it up with a search adding the word “criticisms.” This resulted in almost 41 million results, some with titles like “The War Against Common Core” raising fears that there’s a conspiracy afoot.  And fear seems to be at the root of the reactionary voices: fear of losing a sense of control in a local school system, a fear of lowering standards, or a fear of government-imposed ideologies.  Bueno, since this blog is NOT about politics, or even public education per se, I would suggest reading  this article from the National Review which, from a right-of-center perspective, nicely sums up the CC issue and hopefully allays some fears.

The Spanish article summed it up quite succinctly.  It first stated what the EAs are: puntos de referencia para medir el conocimiento y la capacidad de los estudiantes durante cada año escolar.  It then pointed out the justification for them, referring to the fact that different states have different academic standards, kids with a calificación of a “C” in one state, could possibly earn an “A” in another.  But I was more interested in the graphics illustrating the article.

Delivering all the positive messages of the EAs was a brightly smiling female cartoon character of the “big-head-little-body” type. She was sort of fairy godmother of public education, wielding her pointer like a magic wand. Her word balloons were in Spanish, but her extremadamente dark hue and straight hair made her hard to pinpoint ethnically. Her pearl necklace and dress-suit definitely gave her a professional air. But what I was most impressed with was the decision of the cartoonist to give her a modest physique, wider in the waistline than your typical female cartoon. She’s not Twiggy or Barbie.  She’s a slightly chunky, ethnically ambiguous lady. No chicas will suffer anorexia by comparing themselves to her, and no particular groups can be insulted by her. That’s an education in itself.  

Looks like Gideon has some Competición

Looks like Gideon has some Competición

After the Partners in Science conference was over, I moved from the superlative Hilton on Mission Bay to a serviceable but forgettable hotel down the street. It was fine, but primarily used as just a place to rest our weary heads between aventuras. Probably the highlight of our stay there was waking up to the sound of parrots squawking in the adjacent palm trees—something you just don’t experience in the Pacific Northwest.

I did make a discovery in our room, however. We’re accustomed to finding a Gideon’s Bible resting in the top drawer of the night table or dresser, and this hotel was no exception. There it was, crisp and unused, yet reassuring in a funny way. It’s a piece of Americana, of traveling tradition. But this time there was a twist. Not only was there good ‘ol Gideon’s Bible, but another book was sitting on TOP of the dresser. This one was completely unfamiliar.

It was called Jing Si Aphorisms, and was a small book of verses; about 240 in all. But these were not Bible verses, they were Buddhist. Well, since I know just about nothing about Buddhism, I’ll leave it at that: 240 aphorisms which, according to my online diccionario, are “terse sayings that embody general truths.”

The thing that caught my eye about the handsome little book, however, was that it stated each aphorism in four different languages: Chinese, English, Japanese, and Spanish. This was a Twenty-first Century Gideon’s Bible: positive and multicultural. I flipped through it, not so much to gain enlightenment but to compare the English to Spanish.  Here are a few examples:

If we can reduce our desires,

There is nothing really worth getting upset about.

Si logramos diminuir nuestros deseos,

No hay nada por lo que realmente valga la pena enfadarse.

Or how about:

The beauty of a group lies in the refinement of its individuals.

La belleza de un grupo está en el refinamiento de los individuos.

General truths are universal. The previous one has been expressed, I’m sure, in a Spanish proverbio; and the following one sounds extremely Biblical:

It is more of a blessing to serve others than to be served.

Es mayor bendición servir a otros que ser servido.

But let’s not leave Gideon’s Bible completely out, it also contains a lot of universal truths (as well as some slightly bizarre stories.) In fact, observing that Jing Si employs multiple languages makes me consider this world full of many tongues and the Biblical story of The Tower of Babel. At the beginning of this leyenda, it was said that the entire world spoke the same language (Hebrew?) But construction of the great tower somehow threatened God, and He responded by causing everyone to be unable to understand each other:

Genesis 11: 7

“Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”NIV

Génesis 11:7

Vamos, bajemos y allí confundamos su lengua, para que nadie entienda el lenguaje del otro.

Bible literalists consider this to be an historic event that marks the beginning of the different languages on Earth. Can you imagine a bunch of Babylonian workers suddenly incapable of communication because each one suddenly spoke a different language? One guy says something in Arabic, but his confused coworker responds in Italian. A third guy interrupts using Ebonics. A final guy says “It’s all Greek to me.” Well, linguists would have a much different explanation, but let’s not even start that discussion. Suffice it to say that the good folks that donate the Gideon’s Bibles may want to take a look at the Jing Si format, and consult with their publishers about an updated version. America reads more than just English these days.

Of Conquistadores and Time Shares

Of Conquistadores and Time Shares

San Diego is a wonderful piece of the world, and I journey to that sun-embraced part of California every January to attend a conference called Partners in Science.  I began this tradition eight years ago when I did a research project with Seattle Biomedical, but that’s a bit of a long story.  Suffice it to say that I’m grandfathered into the system, and now get to enjoy a few complementary nights at the Mission Bay Hilton Hotel where the conference takes place.  Lori La Güera and my son Benji came along this year, but occupied themselves elsewhere while I attended the conference. For example, on the first full day of the conference, I joined a group of teachers and scientists that toured the facilities of Scripps Oceanographic Institute.  During this time, my significant others joined some friends and went to LegoLand®. 

While there, Lori was given an opportunity for a $100 gift certificate for Lego® merchandise. The only catch was that the “gift” required a promise to attend an hour long presentation at the Hilton LegoLand Resort—an opportunity to become “part owners” in the Hilton franchise.  For merely thousands of dollars, we could have access to glamorous vacation facilities and discounts on theme parks, plus have the chance to be somehow connected to Paris Hilton.  Who could say no? Someone who always feels two paychecks from poverty, that’s who. Excited, Lori called to get my consent. I said absolutamente no.  Six hours later they came back to the hotel with plastic bags filled with a hundred dollars worth of Lego items, evidence of a blatant disregard for the words of el jefe.

The second day of the conference was for viewing poster presentations of new participants, giving them the chance to illuminate people on their arcane scientific research.  There were also teacher workshops with offerings ranging from the use of nanotechnology in science classes to ways to motivate students toward STEM careers (STEM is currently the word of the day for science teachers. It’s an acronym for Science Technology Engineering and Math, and if you’re writing a grant, be sure to include it in your proposal.)  The evenings were filled with classy dining and stimulating talks.  In a nutshell, this conference recharges my intellectual baterías each year, and makes me truly feel like a professional.

On the Sunday morning following the end of the conference, we headed for SeaWorld, that colorful mezcla of science and entertainment—a theme park that tries to educate the general public who, for the most part, are satisfied with a superficial glimpse into the titillating realm of the fang-bearing sharks, or an anthropomorphically amusing sea lion show.  I’ve been to SeaWorld numerous times before, but wasn’t prepared for the spectacle that greeted us as we neared the entrance: a quarter-mile gauntlet of sign-wielding protestors lining the road.

The messages ranged from the straight-forward “BOYCOTT SEAWORLD” to the informative “WILD ORCAS SWIM 40-100 MILES A DAY IN THE OCEAN” to the play on words “THEY’RE DYING TO ENTERTAIN YOU.”  The protestors were passionate, and I am mostly on their side.  It’s a quandary for a marine educator like me.  I used to work with marine mammals at Marineland, and I felt empatía for our confined pair of Orcas (Orky and Corky) as they swam in their monotonous circles.  I even helped hold a baby Orca as the other trainers slid a lubricated tube down her gullet to feed her (Corky refused to nurse her.)  So I’m intimately familiar with the conditions being protested against.  But I also know that my ten year old son is much more amazed by beautiful large sea mammals now that he’s actually seen them up close and has gotten splashed by them (we sat in the Soak Zone of the Killer Whale show.)  One of the signs had the admonition to “WATCH BLACKFISH” which is a documentary currently on Netflix®.  I haven’t seen it yet, but I know I should.

On Monday we spent a glorious sunny morning…indoors. It was time to visit the LegoLand Resort and fulfill our part of the aforementioned $100 deal.  But what was originally billed as an hour-long presentation stretched into a two-and-a-half hour ordeal would have strained the patience of a tortuga.  We knew from the beginning that we weren’t going to buy, but felt a little obliged to endure the nice young lady’s enthusiastic sales talk as a way of saying “thank you for the $100 dollar gift certificate that I told Lori La Güera not to get.”  After traversing three layers of sales personnel with ever more affordable options, we escaped the LegoLand Resort and headed for the nearest Subway®. 

After lunch we drove to Torrey Pines State Natural Reserve where we hiked the trails over the cliffs, admired the unique Mediterranean-like flora, and played on the beach.  This was Benji’s first time wading into Southern California surf, and despite the fact that it was January, he took to the water like a natural dude.  I couldn’t have been prouder.  Dinner was in Old Town where I traditionally have a post-conference Mexican meal with some new form of margarita.  The choice this year was a refreshing cucumber & jalapeño concoction at Miguel’s Cocina—a delicious way to end an almost perfect day.

Tuesday was our final day, and I drove Lori and Benji to the airport early in the morning.  We had separate flights, and I wasn’t leaving until late in the afternoon. So I had time for one more aventura.  I had read about the intriguing sandstone formations of Point Loma and made that my destination. This is a place where waves crash angrily into rugged cliff walls at high tide, but expose tremendous tide pools at low tide. As it were, I got there during high tide, so got to see and hear the dramatic water show that is such a contrast to the comparatively nonmoving water of Puget Sound. This area, the cliffs and surrounding 600 acres of now-rare coastal sage scrub habitat, are part of the Cabrillo National Monument. I’ve known of this name and its association with Southern California since childhood, but didn’t know anything about Señor Cabrillo himself. So it was off to the visitor’s center for a quick look-see.    

 

The visitor’s center overlooks the city of San Diego and the bay. A godlike statue of Cabrillo surveys the spectacular view, rigid with its sandstone composition as well as its erect posture—accentuated by the cross-bearing column attached to his back. The proudness of this escultura reminds me of all the times Europeans are depicted as semi-deities discovering new lands and bringing enlightenment and civilization to the savages of the “New World.” But Cabrillo wasn’t quite the destroyer of native civilizations that Cortés was (although he did launch his career as the captain of crossbowmen under Cortés, and one has to wonder how many Aztec foes he fell.)

As I gazed at the armor-clad mannequin in the mini-museum (depicted in my dibujo above) I couldn’t quite hate him too much. Like SeaWorld, the Spanish conquistador (quick point of clarification: Cabrillo was neither Spanish nor a conquistador; he was Portuguese, and the term “conquistador” wasn’t coined until a hundred years after he died) presents a quandary. Sure he and his ilk, with their smallpox and their Catholicism, wiped away the indigenous peoples and their ways of life. But I, and millions of other Americans pocho and otherwise, are a product of his arrival. If Cabrillo hadn’t found the excellent bay that is now San Diego, we wouldn’t have the Mission Bay Hilton or SeaWorld. If his fleet hadn’t explored further up the California coast, we simply wouldn’t have the country we all enjoy. Ultimately all the organizations and landmarks mentioned above: Scripps Oceanographic Institute; Seattle Biomedical; Marineland; and even LegoLand® all exist because adventurous and greedy marineros along with their proselytizing monks and friars, invaded and settled this part of the world.

I’ve grown to accept the uglier parts of our common history out of necessity. Besides, one of the interesting legacies of Spanish colonialism is the pervasive use of español in west coast geography. In fact, next time you visit LegoLand, drive 0.8 mile northwest. There, overlooking the beautiful Pacific Ocean, you’ll find a lovely upper-class residential area. Read the street names and you’ll find Los Robles Drive.     

Christmas Tamales and a Naughty Chihuahua

Christmas Tamales and a Naughty Chihuahua

Making tamales right before Christmas is a holiday tradition in the Mexican world.  I’ve been making these husk-enclosed treasures for the past quarter century, and have been consuming them for the past FIFTY YEARS.  That’s a lot of masa.  I probably started helping my father make them when I was a teenager, but I don’t really remember.  It has always been a part of my life and is one of the precious few ties I have to the Mexican half of my heritage.

The tamales of my youth were made with shredded beef—tamales de carne de vaca.  My father made a few sweet ones también, adding sugar and raisins to the masa.  These were identified by wrapping a thin strip of corn husk around the tamale and tying it in a bow.  This allowed the sweet ones to be singled out of the massive population of plump tamales we produced and crowded into the steamer.

When tamales became part of my own nuclear family tradition, Lori made some innovations.  The first were the “vegetarian tamales,” stuffed with cheese and poblano chilies instead of meat.  Of course Dad’s sweet varieties were also vegetarian (vegan, in fact), but their main attraction to us niños was that they were sweet, not meatless.  Lori’s second alteration was to change the recipe from beef to pork.  We now use pork shoulder, and the results are muy delisiosos.  Finally, Lori’s most clever change had to do with our production line.  Part of the fun of this tradition is the “assembly line” mode of production.  One family member separates the soaking corn husks from a tray of cold water, the next persons applies masa to the husk and passes it on.  The third person places a dollop of seasoned meat in the center and wraps it up, and the final person situates them upright in the steamer pan. 

Traditionally, we smeared the masa onto the corn husk with a spatula.  In this way, our assembly line was uneven.  The jobs are individually quite simple, but this slow method of applying masa caused a back-up at family member número dos (picture the I Love Lucy candy wrapping on the assembly line episode.)  One year Lori had an epiphany.  Instead of struggling to plaster on the masa like some corn-based fresco food art, why not use a tortilla press?  It works like a charm.  Set a small sheet of wax paper against each face of the press, place a ball of rolled up masa in the middle, and then crank the press down.  When you open it up, you have a perfect disc of masa, ready for the corn husk.  Our assembly line is now much more quick and efficient, and Lori La Güera has a true story of how her Nordic ingenuity improved on my simple Latino labors.  She has told this story many many times.

Making tamales has its rewards and problems.  One of the problemas stems from the fact that the meat used is so delisioso that it attracts the unwanted attention of sniffing opportunists.  Remember Skippy from a previous blog?  Well, three years ago he got under the table as we prepared to start the assembly line—quietly watching and sniffing like a jackal out on the periphery of a lion kill.  He’s such a ubiquitous presence that we didn’t even notice him.  Everything was on the table; the masa, the corn husks, the steamer, and…the MEAT.  Anyway, something happened outside (snow falling?) and we had to leave for a few minutes.  Now, you’ve heard that cats have nine lives ¿verdad?  Have you heard the one about dogs having three chances?  Like the “three strikes” law, dogs should be allowed three big mistakes before being sent packing.  Skippy’s first chance was getting hit by a car and costing me hundreds of dollars.  The ordeal can be read about here in a meandering essay from an old blog (my drawing is worth a look, however.)  Skippy’s second chance took place on that Christmas of three years ago.

We came back to the dining room and stopped short in our tracks, shocked at what we beheld.  There on the table, I repeat: ON TOP of the table, was our Skippy, face buried in the bowl of tamale meat wolfing down mouthful after mouthful of too-good-for-a-dog carne.  At first we were too shocked to say anything.  But Skippy heard us and sheepishly turned his round little head in our direction. Dogs lack the same range of facial expressions as, say, a chimpanzee.  But there are a few signs of body language that are easy to spot: ears pressed back against the head to diminish size and therefore express submissiveness; eyes opened wide to gather information of potentially harmful situations; posture arched and head bowed to further the reduction in body size and reinforce submissiveness.

Skippy’s body language said it all.  If he could speak, he would have stammered something like “I know I am doing a bad thing. I could not help myself because I am a carnivore, and the aroma of the meat was too tempting.  I expect to be punished now, Master.”  Shouting must have followed, scrambling for cover, perhaps a swat or three, yelping. All I really remember is what Skippy looked like when he adopted his “I am as submissive as possible” belly-up position.  He is normally a trim little canine with an impressively thin waist.  But so greedy were his gulps of tamale meat that he was actually distended, gorged to the point of visibly changing his physique.  I’ve never seen him like that again, and hope there’s no repeat performance.  That would, sin duda, be the unforgiveable third strike.

Zafiro Añejo

Zafiro Añejo

I don’t watch a whole lot of television, but have, like millions of other clean and sober Americans, become severely addicted to Breaking Bad, the popular series about a chemistry teacher who turns to making methamphetamine when he learns he has lung cancer. All it took was one euphoric episode. Actually, I held off for several seasons before the peer pressure got to me. Knowing that the main character was a chemistry teacher, I was naturally interested in how a brother science teacher would be portrayed. But as I quickly learned, his role as a teacher became progressively irrelevant to the storyline. Part of the purpose of the Walter White character even being a teacher, I think, was to provide an unsettling juxtaposition of identities: a role model who works with our children and a manufacturer of an illicit soul-stealing blight of society all rolled up in a cancer-suffering puzzle of a man.

               

Aside from that, I found that watching BB had the nice little side benefit of having some Spanish in the script. The setting, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and the fact that producing and selling meth puts one in the same arena as Mexican drug cartels, provides for occasional Spanish dialogue. Probably the two episodes with the most español are Hermanos and Salud, both from the fourth season. At this moment I feel obliged to announce SPOILER ALERT if you, by some milagro, have not yet watched BB.

Both of these episodes focus on the character of Gustavo “Gus” Fring.  For the uninitiated, Gustavo is a very charismatic bad guy—someone who shamelessly provides the poison of meth to a growing population of human refuse, but does so with such professionalism and such exquisite manners that it’s hard not to admire him to some degree (guilty pleasure # 32: grudging admiration for fictitious and murderous drug lord.) Gustavo is played by the American actor Giancarlo Esposito.  Esposito was born in Denmark to an Italian father and an African American mother while in BB he plays a mixed-race Chilean who runs a Mexican fast-food restaurant.  He’s a champion of cultural and ethnic diversity whether he’s selling you meth or pollo asado.

In Hermanos, Gus witnesses the close-up murder of his close associate (“close” in both a professional way, and in an ambiguous way that has led to much online speculation.) This occurs in a flashback from 20 years in the past and provides us viewers with a little insight into Gus’ motivations.  It also sets up the action for the Salud episode, when Gustavo makes a vengeful revisit to the Juárez Cartel.  For those who want to know the full details, watch the Fourth Season of Breaking Bad, or read the fan-page Breaking Bad Wiki. Here’s the website:  http://breakingbad.wikia.com/wiki/Zafiro_A%C3%B1ejo 

Suffice it to say that Salud brings Gustavo back to Mexico is to have a fateful meeting with fellow drug kingpin Don Eladio, for the culmination of a blood feud that was established in the Hermanos episode. The real drama starts at the 34 minute mark, when Gustavo stands by the pool in the same spot where his associate (played by James Martinez) was killed.  He opens a small pill box and takes a couple of tablets that we, later in the episode, surmise to be some sort of antidote (activated charcoal?)  When Don Eladio and his entourage of well-fed henchmen enter the scene we learn what Gustavo’s weapon of choice is.  A box with a ribbon on it rests on a nearby patio table, catching Eladio’s attention. ¿Un regalo? he asks.  He lifts an ornate bottle out of the box and spouts with admiration “Incluso la botella es una obra de arte.”

In one of the cleverest sequences I’ve ever seen, Gus uses the contents of that bottle to poison the entire cartel, reducing his competition and exacting his revenge in less than ten minutes.  It was one of those scenes I had to re-watch several times. The bottle was a liter-sized container of a fictitious tequila called zafiro añejo. Efforts were made by the producers to have some actual product placement with a real brand, but once the tequila companies learned the scene would involve imbibers dropping like moscas, they declined.  It was decided to create a BB original brand, inspired by the rare and terribly expensive 140 year old cognac called Hardy Perfection Fire.

Getting back to Spanish, more relevant to this blog than drug lords or tequila, let me reiterate that it was enjoyable to encounter its occasional use in this series.  Sometimes the phrases are spoken slowly and deliberately, as when the Mafioso-like Eladio intones “los negocios son los negocios.”  At other times, the actors are demonstrably native speakers, as when the articulate Martinez rapidly fires his lines.  Gustavo is supposed to be Chilean (although “Fring” isn’t exactly a Latin apellido.)  He does pretty well with his Spanish, though it’s obvious he is acting and experiencing some difficulty.  Then again, he’s challenged to do Spanish with a Chilean accent, so that’s perhaps another reason it sounds odd.  I’m sure I couldn’t have done any better, so I won’t criticize the actor any further.

So now, having finished all that NetFlix® has to offer at the moment, I wait with baited breath for the final eight episodes to become available.

Your Perro pooped on our Césped

Perro pooped on our Césped

The time has come to introduce Skippy. He’s reclining with his back against my thigh as I sit on the couch typing this. Yes, Skippy is the family perro, a long-haired Chihuahua. He’s of the deer-face variety, a much more handsome animal than the apple-head breed—the freaky little shivering wimps typically portrayed in entertainment venues such as the Ren and Stimpy cartoons. That’s my personal opinion, por supuesto, but I bet most real hombres would agree. 

Both varieties of Chihuahuas, however, share the characteristic lightbulb round forehead. This is a textbook example of neoteny—the retention of physical or behavioral traits reminiscent of infancy. In the case of the selective breeding of domestic dogs, neoteny shouts out from the large round forehead, bulging eyes, and reduced snout of the Chihuahua—all bringing this descendent of a timber wolf closer, in appearance, to a human bebé. These qualities, along with a constant need for contact and affection, allow Chihuahuas to fill the void felt by nurturing ladies bereft of actual children. Happy and spoiled is the Chihuahua owned by such a woman. Sigh.

Anyway, it wasn’t my idea to get a dog, much less a wee parody of a dog that demonstrates the humorous side of artificial selection.  And this is ironic because Skippy has adopted me as his human of choice. When I come home and plop down, he is immediately on my lap. And I’ve begrudgingly grown fond of him, and not just to connect to my heritage through Mexico’s famous dog. Yes, Chihuahuas truly are from the state of Chihuahua. In fact, as a child I thought they were a species of wild animal caught in the Mexican desert, like a kit fox or a jackalope.

So one day, about six years ago, I came home from work and there he was, purchased off of Craigslist-Seattle by my wife and daughter sin permisso. For years I maintained, as the hombre of the house, that I didn’t want a dog— not even a cute Mexican one with a diminutive body that entices rodent-hunting owls to swoop closely overhead  (true story.) I just didn’t need another pet, even if his ancestors once warmed the laps of Mayan royalty.

But Lori La Guëra was trying to do something special for our daughter Summerlyn.  As a young teen, Summerlyn really wanted a Chihuahua. Not because she was trying to connect to her one quarter Latina heritage, but because high-profile celebrities were making tiny dogs quite appealing, like little canine accessories. Paris Hilton had Tinkerbell, Britney Spears had BitBit, Hilary Duff had Chiquita, and by golly, Summerlyn was going to have…Skippy. $400 later and our family grew by one undeniably cute young Chihuahua.

Within a year it became apparent that Skippy was an alpha male—or so he thinks. Whenever he’s on a walk, he asserts his dominance over any dog that listens. GUAU GUAU! But he reserves most of his verbal venom for Hunter, the big German shepherd across the street. Owned by a family of Mexicanos, he is black and massive and apparently understands Spanish. I have heard Regino, the hombre of the house, bark orders (sic) at him in Spanish and Hunter dutifully complies. Regino speaks English perfectly, but his wife Alicia does not. Her English is as bad as my Spanish, so she and I can only communicate on a perfunctory level.

Anyway, Hunter spends his days behind a sturdy wood fence. Whenever Skippy gets loose in the front yard, he immediately charges across the street and barks through the bottom of the fence at Hunter, who is maybe twenty times more massive, but is safely confined. Their shouting match exudes great enthusiasm on both sides, and after a few seconds Skippy proudly strides back home with his chest puffed out. The neighbors, thankfully, don’t seem to mind at all.

The only problem with doggy communication is that it is sometimes accompanied with the exchange of bodily excretions. Often when Skippy finishes his barking performance, he accents it by raising a hind leg and anointing the neighbors’ grass with his urine. This is undoubtedly enraging to Hunter who can smell the puny interloper’s deposit. “How dare that little runt to mark his territory on my turf,” he thinks. What’s worse is that dogs, when possible, leave feces rather than urine. I have witnessed Skippy squat in sight of Hunter for just that reason. It’s usually followed by a gesture whereby Skippy kicks his hind legs forcefully behind him, scratching up fragments of grass to rain down on his droppings.

All this is turf war using chemical tools we short-muzzled humans just don’t get. Scent glands near the anus add chemical signals to the doggy poop that are meaningful in a canine sort of way. Glands are also present in the paws, so when Skippy scratches grass behind him in that insulting manner, he’s releasing pheromones into the area that proclaim his presence. These are identification markers, attempts at social dominance.

Fortunately our neighbors are better at keeping their perro where it belongs than we are. But once in a while Hunter does get out. When he does, he understandably rushes to give Skippy a taste of his own medicine. I don’t mind—Skippy deserves it. The only problem is that if Hunter decides to leave a solid calling card in the yard, his deposits are pretty much as big as Skippy himself. This happened the other day, and luckily I saw the land mine before anyone stepped in it. Regino told me that if Hunter ever does this to let him know—a neighborly gesture I appreciate—but as I gazed across the street I could tell he wasn’t home. I could see Alicia, along with Regino’s padres who were visiting from the old country, so I knew that if I were to go over there I would have to communicate in Spanish.

But how do you say “your dog pooped on our lawn”? I decided to march over before I chickened out and just say the first thing that popped into my little Pocho cabeza. I started with a Buenos días to the anciano, to which he replied in kind. This was followed by a “¿Regino no está aqui?” (to which I already knew the answer.) The old man responded with a sentence I didn’t really understand. And then I delivered the finale to Alicia, “su perro usó nuestro césped como un baño.”  Everyone laughed, and that’s always a relief. Alicia came over with plastic bags on her hands saying “where’s the poopy”, an cross-lingual effort as glorious as my own. Amazing how a little doggy doo can be the catalyst of both foreign language practice and neighborly communication. 

El Rey de las Llantas

El Rey de las Llantas

Can’t remember what movie it was, but I recall a scene in some action flick where the main character drives south of the border while his radio blares out a jingle for “El Rey de las Llantas!” He ends up conducting business with some shady character, the author of said radio commercial, who is using his tire business as a front. Despite the shortcomings of this character (whoever he was), his radio commercial must have been quite effective—it’s the only thing I remember about this película.      

It came back to me the other day after a little ordeal with my car. One evening I noticed a slow leak in my driver side rear tire, so I grabbed our bicycle pump, filled up the tire, and placed the pump in the back seat.  Yes, I confess, I’m that guy that walks two miles through downtown Seattle to avoid a $5.00 parking fee, or who uses a bike pump on a car tire rather than spend a dollar for compressed air at the gas station. I view such instances not only as moments of frugality, but as exercise opportunities as well. Last summer I literally dragged a suitcase five miles through Anchorage partly to avoid a taxi fare.

Anyway, two days later I came out to my car after work to find the tire completamente desinflado. It was time to take it in. As suspected, there was a tiny nail impaled into my relatively new tire. This diagnosis occurred at the same tire vender where I bought it three months prior. I won’t reveal the identity of this franchise, but let’s just say they’re named after a rather large vowel. They claimed they couldn’t legally fix it since it was near a corner and that the patch could fall off. Regulations prevented them from repairing a puncture that was either on a sidewall or near a shoulder.

As a result of these strict guidelines, they could only sell me a brand new tire. The tiny hissing hole rendered the still young tire, with all its sexy deep tread, unfixable. It seemed extraordinarily wasteful. It reminded me of an old Mad magazine satire about dishonest mechanics where the greasy shyster says “your spark plug wire was unfixable so we had to replace the engine.” They showed me the only matching llanta in the shop which, after taxes and insulation, would cost $100.  I said “no gracias” and decided to keep my bicycle pump handy until I found a better deal.

The next day I took my wife’s minivan to work as she took my car to various tire merchants to inquire about either fixing or replacing it for a more reasonable cost. Every store she went to recited the same mantra about regulations preventing them from repairing a puncture too close to the corner. She went from store to store until finally Lori la guëra ended up in the Mexican part of town.

To hear her tell the tale is hilarious because Lori speaks little Spanish, and she does a funny version of a Mexican accent when she attempts to imitate someone with a Latino speech pattern. From what I gather, Lori asked the guy (I’ll call him Raymundo) if he could fix my tire. He replied “chure, I feex them alla’ time.” She asked him if he was worried about regulations to which Raymundo said “pfft, regulations. You theenk my costumers care?” I could almost hear him saying “Badges? We don’t need no steenkin’ badges.” Raymundo was a model of practicality, unencumbered by the trámites burocráticos of the larger American society. Why waste a new tire for such a tiny, and truly fixable, problem? We were both very thankful.  The cost?  Ten bucks.  No receipt.

Raymundo is, in my humble opinion, El Rey de las Llantas!


Palabras Profundas

llantas: tires
trámites burocráticos : bureaucratic paperwork ("red tape")


Linkos

There really is a Mexican tire company with the name "Rey de las Llantas"
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ButrdVLwZRo