You’re no Xicano ese! 3s. stream of mental cochinero or is that conciousness?

Somehow I gathered enough gull to pen what might potentially be the post of the day. Mind you, I have been posting somewhere else; ’tis a trilingual thing, you wouldn’t understand. Ok, that last nasty bit is just pure ruefulness which would suck the living daylights out of the current post if only dare I expound ramifications already seen as flotsam and jetsam here.

I guess am going against nature, ran the thought as I elaborated the first lines in my thoughts I wanted to start this post with but heck, what felt wrong a few seconds ago, seems to be ok this second now.

As a good latino I tend not to do things when there aren’t ganas on it. Perhaps that explains why we embrace many a siesta which seems odd to many a dirty stinking Cromwell lover protestant.

Cromwell is really the war general of the protestant movement; I need to read a bio on the lad. I mean the guy juggled the Spanish Crown in its heyday.

Ok, I will get to the nature of this post, Geezes fucking cryst, I have so much fucking shit to unload, perhaps that explains my reluctante to retake the bull by the horns. I suppose I have been neglecting the English lingo somewhat; I have been neglecting to express myself, my thoughts, in English, that is.

I have been of lately observing myself more carefully than usual. My metalinguistics are in red alert. I had not done this since I left Aztlán proper for Sweden more than 9, kissing the ass of ten, years, fucking eternities, ago.

My, what would be 12th & 10th year Swedish high school kids, have pointed this out to me.

At one point I was amazed and a tad disappointed, in all due frankness, that I was compared to Cheech and Chong. Another one wanted me to do the texan accent again upon hearing the latter I promptly responded that I would have to get in the mood to do it which aptly reserved the response that I need not do that.

Lord have mercy upon este nopalito reprimido.

Living in Califas undertakes a great deal of duress. Remember, I was an illegal alien. Mind you fully bred in the land of my ancestors. Politics and citizenship aside one as a mexican american learns quickly to adapt. Assimilation is assassination might of have been the beacon that guided us through thin and thick during much of the 70’s and 80’s but it didn’t bring bread and butter to our tables.

We simply had to disguise ourselves. One way was to sound blue eyed blond gringo. Though our English was firmly wired in place we had one huge defect: we spoke it with a mexican melody. So for many of us this meant to hide that mexicanness when we spoke. The slightest slip of the wrong /e/ or /i/ sound would suffice to bring upon a host of dirty looks that decried alien! to one.

Conundrum of sorts because this hasn’t a negative clang to it in Sweden, instead I should embrace it now that I have the ooportunity to be who I really am but I inevitably end up not doing so.

I still strain my self to be a Cromwell American lover and am befuddled all by it.

Relacionado a este madre de debrayes mentales: Roots and Poetry

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