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

Say ADIÓS to the Summer

Say ADIÓS to the Summer

As another summer comes to a close, we in the Pacific Northwest are painfully aware that it's time to say goodbye to our life-giving globe of warmth and light. This inspired me to republish a review I once wrote of a children's book called: 

La Lagartija y el Sol (the Lizard and the Sun)

By Alma Flor Ada 

Illustrated by Felipe Dávalos

This beautifully illustrated children’s book delivers a Mexican folktale in English and in Spanish.  The story takes place in the pre-colonial days of the Aztec empire.  It begins with a crisis: El sol no salía y todo estaba en tinieblas.  It’s not really explained why the sun doesn’t want to wake up (he’s bored with his job?), but all of Monteczuma’s  horses and all Monteczuma’s men couldn’t get a rise out of ‘ol Sol.  Actually there were no horses in Mesoamerica in those days, but el emperadodoes employ a woodpecker with a rock-hard beak and a tenacious little emerald lizard to help resurrect the sun and end the darkness.  I won’t give away their trick, but I will say the book ends (spoiler alert) like a Rudyard Kipling “just so” story—Y desde ese día, a todas las lagartijas les encanta dormir al sol—which explains why it is that lizards love to bask in the sun (of course, we could consider reptilian ectothermy, but that would diminish the story’s charm.)

The colorful paintings of this book are very captivating.  They are based on the Aztec style of picture writing, the 2D glyphs seen on ancient ceramic vessels and ritual codices painted on deer skin.  I first saw these stylistic images, where all the figures are seemingly drawn in profile, in my sixth grade history book.  Growing up in Southern California, we learned an appreciable amount about Mexican history.  I recall the Aztec soldiers in jaguar and eagle suits wielding their ornate battle clubs bravely, but futilely, against the firepower of the Conquistadores.  I’ve since seen the stylistic art of the Aztecs in countless Mexican restaurantes, especially the famous Aztec calendar stone (that amazing disk-shaped sculpture comprised of a series of intricately detailed concentric rings that draw your attention to the sun god Tonatiuh, who sticks his tongue out at you from the center.*) But the paintings of this book are rendered in a fully 3D fashion, as if Quetzalcoatl pulled his creations out from the world of flat glyphs and into the 3D world.

There are floating chinampas, oversized headdresses, plazas and pyramids, and authentically gargantuan ear piercings (but no obsidian lip plugs thankfully).  And despite the focus on an Aztec style, a little Diego Rivera influence makes its way into the art—making it a truly Mexican production.

*Actually, what appears to simply be a tongue dangling from the god's mouth is an obsidian knife--a reminder of the god's thirst for human sacrifice. I thought I'd leave that little detail out of a children's book review.

Palabras Profundas

resplandecer – to glow

resplandeciente - glowing

trono – thorn

descubrimiento – discovery

pájaro carpintero – woodpecker

despiértate – wake up!

florecer– to bloom

alumbrar – to light up

Linkos

http://almaflorada.com/the-lizard-and-the-sun-la-lagartija-y-el-sol/

If you're a fan of wonderful Mexican art (mucho más mejor que mío), then check out:

http://felipedavalos.com/

¡AH! La Serpiente se Escapó

¡AH!  La Serpiente se Escapó

Part of my high school Spanish experience required the listening to and repeating of dialogues performed by enthusiastic, if goofy-sounding, actores. Usually we considered them to be a little corny. I remember part of one in particular, where a concerned mom (la Señora Gómez) wonders what her little boy is carrying in a bag. The 40 second exchange ends with:

Sra. Gomez: ¿Qué tienes en esa bolsa?

Roberto: Una culebra.

Sra. Gomez: (GASPS loudly)

Roberta: ¿Por qué haces esa cara mamá?

Of course, the attempted humor of this dialogue is based on what is, unfortunately, a pervasive and seemingly instinctual fear of snakes. It’s the same sentiment that allowed Indiana Jones to growl “I hate snakes” without creating much of a social backlash (imagine if he said “I hate dogs” and then doused a room full of cute puppies with gasoline before sending them to a fiery end.)  Last week I got to see this fear put into action in a big way.

My classroom is the biology class with all the critters. I have two little tortugas (red-eared sliders to be precise) named Pedro and Rosadelia, two fancy-tailed goldfish that belonged to my son until he lost interest in them, a golden axolotl (a strange salamander naturally found in only two lakes in Mexico) and, up until four days ago, a ball python named Hamilton. Unfortunately, my three foot long snake decided to test his boundaries and successfully pushed his way out of his tank. Apparently the screen cover was no longer heavy enough to resist him.

When students and I discovered that he was missing, I felt obligated to tell the other teachers on my floor. There was a slim possibility (pardon the pun) that he squeezed under a door and, in the middle of the night, entered a different classroom. My fear was that someone would discover a serpent under their chair and launch into an explosive panic. A few emails later word spread como un reguero de pólvora. By lunchtime I had two assistant principals, a security guard, the dean of students, and an animal control guy all in my room helping me search high and low. The atmosphere was a mix of giddiness and a nervous case of the willies. By the late afternoon, my cluttered room had been thoroughly inspected. I had even removed countertops to search in hidden spaces. Alas, Hamilton was nowhere to be found.

On the next day, my principal popped her head in and asked if I’d like to be interviewed for the news. I declined without hesitation. Nonetheless, by lunch time a news crew from Seattle’s channel 13 arrived to create a story. This was followed, an hour later, by two other news crews that simultaneously interrupted my 5^th period biology class. The cameraman roamed my room taking shots of stuffed specimens and live critters while my giddy pupils tried to get into the camera’s view. Others took cell phone pictures with the reporters they must have recognized from T.V. I still refused to go on camera and further embarrass myself. The whole thing was mortifying. Was this really a news-worthy event? And it wouldn’t end. Even an hour after school was out I got a surprise visit from a reporter of a local newspaper. It was truly a media circus.

I was embarrassed by my own potential negligence and felt exploited by the media. I told them I preferred to remain anonymous, and yet one reporter filmed his animated commentary right outside my door with my name plate clearly in view (and balancing out the rule of thirds as one observant student pointed out.) Students were accosted after school as they left the campus and were asked for comments. One of my kids told me her car was stopped as it was leaving the parking lot by a reporter darting in front of vehicles asking for students who had Mr. Robles.

By the end of the week I was emotionally exhausted. I couldn’t walk down a hall without having to field questions from concerned colleagues. A running email exchange throughout the school took a humorous life of its own. The story reached across the state and into Oregon and, as of this afternoon, a Google search for “python in Issaquah” brought up 25 separate news stories over the reach of five pages. All the while, my students are mystified as to why this made the news in the first place. It’s just a pet snake for crying out loud.

The best part of this story is this. After almost six days of worrying, searching, gossiping, and the whole media circus, I returned to my room after making copies at 6:20 in the evening and, lo and behold, guess who’s lying on the floor right inside my room.  That’s right, El Señor Hamilton. He had emerged from his hiding place, seemingly tired of the ordeal, and was waiting by the door like a faithful dog awaiting his master’s return. I could have kissed him. I settled for letting him wrap around my arm to absorb my mammalian warmth as we reclined in my teacher chair and reunited. I’ve never been so glad to see that stupid snake.

But here’s the kicker. Three television stations and over a dozen newspapers covered the story of Hamilton’s escape, addressing the incident with the same earnestness required of a true natural disaster. But now that he’s returned, how much news will that generate? What reporters will pop into my room to see Hamilton safe and sound?  Is good news newsworthy? 

Palabras profundas

La serpiente

La culebra

El pitón

Linkos

Here’s just a taste of the story:

http://www.king5.com/news/local/Pet-python-on-the-loose-inside-Issaquah-High-School-223558331.html

Do Mosquitoes prefer Mexican Food?

Do Mosquitoes prefer Mexican Food?

A little family joke we have is that “mosquitoes prefer Mexican food.” This came about over years of observable differences in the amount and the intensity of mosquito attacks that I would endure while my esposa smugly stood by seemingly invisible to the little blood suckers.

One instance painfully stands out in my memory. We had just moved to Washington from California, 25 years ago, and were exploring all the cool outdoorsy places in the vicinity (this was before niños.) While hiking in one of the many areas within Mount Rainier National Park, we came into a particular meadow that was swarming with mosquitoes—flimsy little brown kamikazes that instantly were attracted to me. This was before we knew the necessity of DEET in the Pacific Northwest. Unprepared to chemically fend off the cloud of parasites, we had no choice but to run, which we did for about a quarter mile. When we surveyed our bodies for damage, my skin was decorated with at least twelve little reddening bumps while Lori had…..ninguno! Why was she immune?  Or was I just all the more appealing? My wife, la güera, is of German descent, so we concurred that mosquitoes prefer chile verde to Sauerkraut, ja ja.

Last week, during the last vestiges of summer vacation, Lori called me out to the backyard patio one evening. The sun was setting, the air was pleasant, and she was having dinner at the patio table. I warned her that the mosquitoes were out, but she insisted I join her. Well, it was tolerable. She had an anti-bug candle burning, and nothing actually bit me. But I did get those annoying little buzzes right in my ear—the type that make you actually slap your ear. Meanwhile, Lori sat completely unbothered.

As a biologist I can’t help but wonder why mosquitoes are not universal in their preferences. Are there truly different chemical signals that people give off that make them more or less appealing?  Do these differences correspond to ethnic groups? Without wanting to get too serious about researching this topic, I turned to that relatively recent demigod of wisdom: YouTube. I found a funny little video, presented by BBC journalist James May, that illuminated reasons why mosquitos seek the sangre of some people more than others.

It turns out that blood type is one factor. People with Type O are up to 24% more attractive to mosquitoes than others. My mujer is Type A (in more ways than one, ja ja), and so when given the choice, the lovely little flying syringes gravitate towards me: the universal donor. 

Palabras Profundas

Mosquito

The name of our villain is itself a Latin derivative. Mosca is the Spanish word for “fly” (as in those pesky little flying insects), and “mosquito” is the diminutive form. It literally means “little gnat.” Not surprisingly, “mosquito” is an English/Spanish cognate.

Sangre

This lovely word means “blood.” And it’s related to sangria, one of my favorite drinks at Azteca®. The Latin root of this bloody word finds itself distributed throughout the English lexicon. Even in biology, the term “sanguivore” turns up—as a drinker of blood. That would include vampire bats, leeches, and those female (p***a) mosquitoes.

Linkos

This humorous and informative video by James May gives some scientific reasons as to why some people are more prone to getting bit by mosquitoes than others.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCzcIOQ9jMg

That Guy is Wearing my Camiseta

Have you ever experienced that phenomenon where you come across someone wearing the exact same shirt that you were?  It’s not that common.  I have occasionally seen someone wearing a shirt that I own, but it’s exceptionally rare to see someone wearing the same shirt at the same time (exceptions being super generic articles of clothing like denim work shirts or blank white T-shirts.)  I pride myself in being fairly individualistic, and would never adorn myself in a garment of universal commercialism nor slogan like JUST DO IT, or a red Michael Jordan jersey back in the day.

And so, one recent afternoon while surveying the beach at Coulon Park, I was a little surprised to see un paisano sporting my exact same gray and blue sleeveless workout shirt.  It was a sunny August day and I was looking over the crowded beach trying to spot Benji and his diminutive friend Chris amongst the many youngsters playing in the sand and surf.  

As I looked over la playa, I could hear Spanish being spoken behind me.  Not the refined Castilian of instructional CDs, but the rapid and often indecipherable (for me) speak of the campesino.  As I turned slightly, a fellow middle-aged hombre stepped into the sand in front of me, apparently also looking for one of his niños amongst the playful throng.  And lo and behold he was wearing my shirt.

So there we were, two brown-skinned padres side by side on the beach looking for our little ones and wearing the same exact shirts. We didn’t look like each other.  I’m 6 foot 4, and he was about 5 foot 8.  I’m lean, and he was paunchy (yes, I suffer from that condition where my body image is fixed on what I looked like 20 years ago and I occasionally am shocked when I see my reflection—“who’s that viejo in the mirror?”—but I’m still pretty well preserved.)  Bottom line: we would not have been confused for brothers whose mom made us wear the same outfit.

At this point, an opportunity for chit chat presented itself.  Had I been confident, I might have said something like “que buen camiseta tiene usted.”  If he were a standard Seattle white guy, I probably would have said something corny like “Hey, I like your taste in shirts” and we would have shared a chuckle.  But, sad to say, I’m still so darn shy when it comes to speaking Spanish to strangers.  I have the fear that they will assume I’m fluent and start yakking away, only to have me lost in the verbiage.  Qué lastima.

Palabras Profundas

Los Gemelos: 

The twins

Campesino: 

This term refers to the country/rural people of Mexico and other parts of Latin America. The understanding is that they represent a different population than that of the educated urban class, and that the difference is evident in the disparate speech patterns. It's very similar to North Americans contrasting farmers of the south to educated people from New York. I don't mean for it to come across as pejorative. The first time I heard the term was back in the '80s while teaching in L.A. Some of my Honduran immigrant students looked down their noses at the Mexicans whom they called campesinos.

Linkos:

Speaking of Honduras, this camiseta was made in a factory in Honduras. This may alert some to fears of sweatshops and unsafe working conditions. It's hard to get a full picture of what is really happening down there, but if you want to investigate, you may start with this little article:

http://www.waronwant.org/news/265-latest-news/17488-sweatshop-workers-fight-against-garment-company-

, 

Take the Home Depot Challenge

The Home Depot® Challenge

Have you been to Home Depot lately?  They have made serious efforts to communicate to their Spanish speaking clientele, and it seems that every announcement, advertisement, or aisle is written in both languages. Benji and I were there the other day picking up a window shade, some masking tape, and a drill bit so I could bore through the lock of the tool shed since my loving esposa lost the one and only key.  While there I couldn’t help but teach my ten year old some handy words of Spanish.  Let’s see how many of them YOU get.  Match the two columns and then check your answers.

1. ALMACENAMIENTO                                                  A.  lumber

2. ILUMINACIÓN                                                              B.  paint

3. LIMPIEZA                                                                       C.  storage

4. PLOMERÍA                                                                     D.  garden

5. FERRETERÍA                                                                  E.  cleaning

6. HERRAMIENTAS                                                          F.  hardware

7. MADERA                                                                       G.  electrical

8. PINTURA                                                                        H.  tools

9. ACCESSORIAS ELÉCTRICAS                                     I.  plumbing

10. JARDINERIA                                                                J.  lighting                                             

Answers:

1.C, 2.J, 3.E, 4.I, 5.F, 6.H, 7.A, 8.B, 9.G, 10.D

Palabras profundas

Ferretería
This is such a great word. Not only because it has a twirling rr, but because the Latin roots take us to the Fe of "iron", the material that hardware is made of.

Herramientas
Another fantastic word with a strongly twirling rr.  When spoken correctly, it just sounds manly--as the word for "tools" should, verdad?

Linkos

Although Home Depot has admirable use of Spanish in its stores, it chose to close down its Spanish website:

http://www.thinkmulticultural.com/2009/05/04/home-depot-closes-its-spanish-website-after-just-four-months/

Trying not to get discouraged

How did you spend your verano?  Part of mine (three weeks of it) was spent at Seattle University teaching a class called Introduction to the Biomedical Sciences.  The class was offered through a nonprofit organization called CTY (Center for Talented Youth) which is based at Johns Hopkins University.  It was a very intense class; three hour morning sessions, two hour afternoon labs, and two hour evening study sessions.  My 18 students, coming from all over the country and two from other countries, were either aspiring doctors or children of pharmacists or surgeons who were more or less coerced into this expensive course. So while my Issaquah High School colleagues were traveling, fishing, and sleeping 'till noon, I was leading future medical professionals through dissections of cow eyes and fetal pigs.

During the week I actually stayed in the dorms (Bellarmine Hall to be exact.)  I was on the seventh floor, barraged by the incessant hum of nearby freeway traffic and the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun. Bursts of laughter would sporadically echo down the long corridor. It dredged up decades-old memories of my communal coexistence in the barracks-like dorms of Humboldt State.  

What’s all this got to do with being Pocho and speaking Spanish?

The classes offered through CTY were not all science classes.  There were literature, history, and engineering también.  And the instructors, almost all of which were in their twenties, came from all over just like the students.  I was the ONLY local guy in the dorm.  Four young gentlemen on my floor, mostly engineering instructors and T.A.s, were bilingual caballeros.  Their names, and points of origin, were: John from the Dominican Republic (they say Dominica); Juan from Honduras; Ramón from Puerto Rico; and Lalo (Eduardo) from good ‘ol México.  They were a handsome quartet of amigos that moved effortlessly from English to español and back again.  They could chat with the kitchen help in their native tongue, and instantly switch to yak with their Anglo colleagues.

Now I’ve been studying Spanish, to some degree, for almost FORTY YEARS and am still not bilingüe. Well, I should clarify and say that I first started those many years ago, but haven’t really seriously been studying it all along.  Still, I thought I was getting pretty good, but when those four caballeros started chatting in high gear, I had no idea what they were talking about.  How sad, it made me say “ I’ll never really learn Spanish.” So, my challenge now is to not get discouraged by those four Latino gentlemen who, at half my age, were twice as literate.

By the way, the above cartoon is purely a reflection of my own self-consciousness, not a depiction of something that actually happened.  Juan et al were the nicest of gentlemen and never made fun of anyone.

Palabras profundas

Pocho: this word literally means spoiled fruit, and was used by farmers to describe discolored fruit that was no longer any good.  Somehow it became adopted as a derogatory moniker for people of Mexican descent that, intentionally or not, became “less Mexican.” This was usually manifest in the lack Spanish speaking ability, or the adoption of American ways.

Ese tipo es un pocho; no puede hablar nada de español y siempre actúa como un gringo.

With the increasingly mixed population in the U.S., however, the term pocho is becoming more and more embraced as more of us happily accept the role of someone straddling two heritages.  I can’t help the fact that my Mexican-born father married a lovely güera who didn’t speak a lick of Spanish and, consequently, made our home into an English-only institution. Nevertheless, we still made tamales on Christmas, menudo on Saturdays, and had many many tíos y tías.

Linkos

I’ve never met Texan Ed Cantú, but he’s a fellow pocho who has reflected and written mucho on the phenomenon of pochoism.  Check out his blog:

http://pochoyproud.blogspot.com/

...and if you’re already proud of your mixed heritage and want the world to know it:
http://pochowear.com/