Network Aztlan Latino Chicano Comunidades Transnacionales

(1) do not feed the bears

(2) comida

by Charles Mariano

do not feed the bears

where have i been? well, that's a good question. where have we all been? it's summer, so the obvious assumption is we are all on vacation. nobody wants to sit at a machine and type, when there's lakes to swim, rivers to fish. myself, i've taken a deep plunge into a mental river. at times bad, other times i chalk it up to laziness.

warm weather changes our perpectives. we want to open up the road and get the hell outta dodge. take your shoes, your shirts off, dive right in. we don't stop thinking in summer. if anything it becomes more intense with heat, just not laying it down in neat little rows across a silent screen. maybe we're mostly winter communicators. the frost and freeze cuts off all exits. hunker down, what the hell, write a letter.

our lives do not stop. the many episodes that make up the pieces continue at a dizzying pace. last week i drove highway 99 south to visit my family and ran across a shitload of emotions. the notetaking was furious, but lost. sweated all over it. but i continued climbing up the mountain. "research," i kept reminding myself, as i popped open another cold bud. it was a trip up the back roads through sonora to cherry lake. danny suggested it the previous evening over many exotic and frosty cold ones.

i woke up crudo, wondering what the hell i'm doing when i should be sleeping off the thumping in my brain. i put on a clean shirt, grabbed my pen and notepad, and asked directions to the nearest menudo. we met at a place called maria's kitchen, and compared headaches. the food hit the spot, but must admit, the thumping continued. danny groaned, then popped open a morning beer. "the hair of the dog," he toasted.

i realized after about hundred miles of hill driving, that we hadn't told anyone where we were going. for two experienced country chicanos, that was downright stupid. cherry lake is located high up in the boonies at the opposite end of yosemite. not too many tourists go there, because it's not easy to find. the signs posted don't just say Beware of Bears, they say "Beware of Agressive Bears!" right away you get in the habit of looking over your shoulder scouring the thick trees for any movement. hiking here is fine, if you're prepared for it. i don't know, maybe it was the beers from the night before that blurred our senses. we started hiking across the mile long bridge before doing a visual inventory of our gear. flashlight, food, knife, coat, matches, compass, map, first aid, proper hiking boots. everything checked. as in, everything we didn't bring. the shirts on our back, a 6-pack of buds, a hangover, and a halfass attitude. bold provisions for a journey high on macho, and short on brains.

danny is more of the outdoorsman than i am these days. i left home twenty years ago for the city life in sacramento. the years have succeeded in softening my country ways, and dulled common sense. i put all my faith in danny to get me from point A, to B. there were many tracks in the path we walked, so i played a game with danny identifying the animals. that's squirrel, that's a raccoon, that's a deer, that's a herd of deer. the higher up we got, the more pronounced the tracks. whats that? i asked danny. thats a mountain lion. that's a bear, he said. we walked a little further. what's that? i said with wide eyes. that's bear, BIG Bear!

bears up there are mostly black bears and weigh about 300 pounds. these tracks were rare, because they belonged to a grizzly bear, which weighs in at 800 pounds. my mind flashes back to that agressive bear sign. right away i'm cursing for not bringing a knife. as if that's going to make a difference. i could see me pull out my small hunting knife and poking a couple of annoying pinholes in his hide, right before he rips off my head. no, what i needed right then was a bazooka.

after hiking about twenty miles, i asked danny how much further. he looks at me and claims we should have hit a path that pointed right a long time ago. he couldn't understand it. "lets go up over that ridge and get a look," he said. so we climb that ridge, then another, and another. finally i say, "danny, either this place doesn't exist, or we're lost?" i really didn't like the expression on his face. all that faith i put in him let out a long whistling squeal, as the air let out.

he swears there was a path about ten miles back. two things come immediately to mind while he's saying this. no, make that three. one is time. how much time before dark? second was the realization that we hadn't spotted a single soul out there since we started. and thirdly, i'm feeling increasingly stupid by the second.

danny points a direction, and we hit it doubletime now. after a mile, we look up and notice dark clouds forming. clouds are much closer when you're high up like that. we start moving at tripletime, almost a jog. i see huge shadows flitting through the trees. i search the ground for a sharp stick. anything to give me confidence, because at that point i'm feeling pretty vulnerable. everything we could have possibly done wrong, we did it.

after about ten miles of excruciating hiking, we hit a spot that goes in three directions. i look at danny, and he just shakes his head. we flip a coin and take door number two on the far right. we're drenched in sweat now, and the temperature is dropping. i'm looking at the ground for places to sleep, because i doubt if we'll make it out before dark. both of us pretend to be tough, trucking it, but in our minds we're looking more and more like bear food. every muscle in our body is aching, but we can't afford to stop and rest. time is critical.

as ridiculous as it sounds, we came upon yet another spot with a three-way split in the path. frustrated, angry, and thoroughly beaten, we flip a coin again. door number three, and straight down the middle. when you're blind and lost, what the hell. i worry about the cold now. ourclothes are soaked in sweat. if we stop, we freeze.

when things go bad like this, you start to make all these promises for the next time. yeah, next time i'm bringing this, or that. high on that list is matches to build a fire and a flashlight. while were at it, how about water instead of beer? i figure no one will even worry about us for at least two days, because we're such wise and experienced guys. wouldn't matter much, because it would take longer than that for anyone to even figure where we went. basic rule number one, tell someone where you're going.

everytime we pushed ourselves to the limit to climb another winding ridge, another ridge presented itself. it was a cruel joke, that kept getting replayed. it was almost full dark now, we could barely see the path. we decided to walk a wide path, side by side, keeping a sharp eye out for animals. i looked down and noticed a faint design in the dirt. the darkness didn't help, but i stopped anyway to get a closer look. danny didn't want to stop. i needed a way to see better, so i took off my shoe and placed it down, and lowered my head to ground level to match the print. "it's my shoe!" i shouted. "no way," danny yelled back.

there are times like this when you wonder who is really in charge, spirtually, or religiously. whether divine right, or blind luck, by all rights, our butts were cooked. yet, here were my tracks. across the path, danny found his. miraculously, the original tracks we started seven hours earlier. we'd come full circle. it didn't matter how far in the dark we hiked now, we knew it lead back.

we practically raced the five miles up that last ridge, then took a deep breath as we found a clearing through the trees, and could see the lake far below. we were parked next to it somewhere. we couldn't see the truck, but we envisioned the sweetest, warmest, most-loving vehicle ever created.

when we got inside we started it up and put the heater on full blast. i took off my shoes and found all my toes bleeding through my socks. an incredible test of endurance and stamina. we limped out of there, like two wounded ducks down the mountain back to civilization. we both didn't say anything, but we knew. it's an unspoken bond that only people surviving near death feel.

so there you have it. wilderness survival tips by dumb and dumber. who would of thought, i'd be sharing that. since it actually happened, then it's important to learn from my miserable mistake. trust me, i took notes. you kids out there read my words carefully. don't you ever go out camping, or hiking without proper gear. your life may depend on it. remember, bears gotta eat too.

have a nice vacation!

comida

meals cooked, reheated, simmering on the stove. too many kitchens, too many smells. brown is brown. we all gotta eat.

let's pretend i'm in a small restaurant on the other side of the border. suddenly i'm pale brown. the day before, sitting at denny's in sacramento, i was much darker. some days i just don't get it. is there a sign that says white guys to the left, browns to the right, and "tweeners" i.e. mexican-americans, form a line furthest to the back? on any given day, i fall mistakenly into both sides. who measures the proper amounts of color to rank accordingly?

maybe it's the clothes, the accent, or something in my eyes. mexican, mexican-american. don't confuse the two. one is browner, one is smarter, one is taller, one has better eyesight. the battle lines are drawn. who is who? which is better? my blood is far from blue, and yet on a bad day, i could pass. but i don't want to pass. the class system blurs the menu.

personally, i've always been a bottomfeeder. i make no bones about it. i only have to go home to my mother's house, where the world is ruled according to the omnipotent housing authority. life in the projects, and a steady flow of welfare checks, made me the man i am today. everybodys got a story to tell. the how-i-got-my-ass-kicked-story. hell, i ain't even got to the bad part yet. just living. no biggee.

i first heard the term pocho when i took a short cruise to tijuana with my mother and sister. the word by itself isn't as offensive as how it is delivered. emphasis on hostility. i naively looked around, in case there'd been a mistake. no, that was us. it was clear now. we had the unfortunate circumstance of being born on the other side. apparently the air was different. my culture, my people. i'd become someone else.

for generations mexicans have crossed the border and settled on this side. i am second generation mexican-american. grandpa came to the small valley town of merced following the crops and decided to stay. one thing was missing though, a wife. so he went back and kidnapped some woman. turned out to be grandma soccoro. my mother cries when she tells me this story. grandma endured a nightmare of her own. it's too long and depressing for here. another time.

my entire life centers from that location, no matter where i am. i'm proud of my town, love my family, and my country. i suppose that qualifies as whitewashed, depending on how one interprets pocho. in my house, i still eat beans and torts, and the music is an entertaining mix of spanish, oldies, and rock and roll. is that enough?

i've found being mexican is how you want to see. it is vision, in a much broader sense. look back, both sides, then look ahead. what do you see? if the forest is too thick for the trees, take a giant step back. color is not the issue, blindness is. it's not fatal, but hard to fix.

mexican-americans, chicanos, or whatever you choose to be, are spoonfed american ways and attitude. the hipness seeps through our skins in language and walk. some of us take it a step further and assimilate to another level. some can jump both fences, and still remain grounded. the truth is, the haves and the have nots, come in all colors. rich and poor, upper and lower. a disturbing mix of arrogance and embarrassment, dominates my senses. i understand it, still bothers me.

it's not fair to point fingers at a single race. it is a human problem. the good, the bad, and the shamefully bigotted, are everywhere. one only has to look at the recent war in kosovo and "ethnic cleansing." you saw what i saw. they all looked the same. what they see, is lower and upper classes. haves, and have nots.

pocho magazine, a hilarious crew of crazies took the derogatory term "pocho" and ran with it. they're still running, but teaching at the same time. instead of the cold wars behind the iron brown curtain, they've pulled it out and slapped both sides in the face. a wake-up-and-smell-the-tortillas attitude that i find refreshing. it was shocking and offensive for about ten seconds, then i laughed my ass off. creative genius should not be dismissed lightly. hostile barriers need to be torn down, rebuilt. we're all the same.

i shared a few copies of pocho magazine to others like me, and they too fell out. they had something, even if i couldn't put my finger on it. didn't matter, humor like this is sorely needed. comedians like paul rodriguez, george lopez, culture clash, and even the stupid dinky dog are teaching us to laugh at ourselves. some of it misses the mark, but we're learning. eyesight can't be fixed overnight, laughter is a healing bridge.

the smells from the kitchen overwhelm my senses. my culture, my heart. i'm starving!