Fine Line

There is a fine line between pleasure and trauma. Many of us use pleasure to hide our trauma, while others traumatize pleasure. It’s a very difficult boundary to delineate.  The politics defining the trauma and the pleasure are very mixed – some suggesting one over the other. Then there is the challenge of dichotomizing both sensations.

Was I a victim of alcohol and drugs abuse or did I use it recreationally?  These are the questions I must ask myself – where am I?

Regardless of that answer, one thing is clear – I am going to succeed. I have been reading, “For Colored Boys,” and although most of them are depressing stories, I have been able to take one message from them – hope.  I am not, and have not been alone. I may feel like I am in this struggle alone, but there continues to be so many more out there. I wish we could all connect and come together and share. But that is impossible, so instead I stay in and focus. Focus on rebuilding.

perspective.

I’m not going to lie. I woke up super annoyed today. I have to be honest with myself and realize that everything happening to me while in Chicago is a result of my own decision to come her, unknowing of what to expect. Yes, I can blame the social conditions that have led to come here. I can also put the limelight on the manifestations of my own status as a queer Chicano from a working class family. While all this is true, the “suffering,” if I can even exaggeratedly call it that,   

it's dark.

It’s dark here. I open my eyes and I still can’t see anything.

All that is left is in my imagination. Your love lighting the way.

I recall those moments when I was down, and just needed someone to hold me.

The way you used to hold me so close to you, while I cried.

It’s been a while since I’ve cried like that.

Or when I would be afraid and you would just grab my arm and give me a kiss on the cheek.

I don’t even remember the last time I kissed someone I cared for.

Intimacy doesn’t scare me. It frightens me.

It is a result of self-hate, body image issues, doubt, and fear.

You probably don’t remember, but you made me smile.

You also didn’t know how much I talked about you to everyone.

They knew of your existence before I knew of your pain.

Do you remember yelling at me?

I feel so stupid. I told myself no one would ever talk to me like that.

Yet I let you.

More than once.

Do you remember the time you would squeeze my arm in disagreement.

And here I thought your jealousy was your way of telling me you loved me.

I was so naïve. You’d tell me what to do and I followed without objection.

I don’t blame you.

I thought it was my fault.

I was the one who messed up.

To this day, people still blame me.

No—I won’t tolerate the guilt anymore.

Yes I did wrong. But I never abused of you.

My lack of tears are no less valid than the ones on your face.

We were lovers, but you were also my enemy.

To this day, I am recovering from the darkness you put me through.

it's time.

I can’t believe that years after loving you, I still care about you just as much as that innocent summer. I know you’ll figure out who you are once you read this, but honestly, that is the least of my concerns. But a part of me can never forget how much I felt for you. Perhaps it’s because you were my first true love, or maybe you were not. But at least, it felt like you were. Mostly because it was innocent. There were no improper desires. It truly was a young boy discovering himself, and through that meeting you and falling for you.

My yearnings for you were pure. But so was the heartache. All those words that I wrote for and about you, you claimed to love them. I wonder if you knew that you were the cause of them. Perhaps you never figured out that it was I who pranked called you, that I would do anything to just get your attention.

Yes, I admit that it was peevish but it just felt so right back then.

It doesn’t exactly hurt that you are no longer the same person. Granted, we both went our separate ways. What united us back then, perhaps no longer exists. I wouldn’t be surprised if all that is keeping us together is those memories and adventures we decided to embark on.

Yes I still remember. Our moments in City Walk, all the starbucks we drank,  and all the times I wanted to kiss you.

It’s not that I am forgetting you, but rather I am letting myself go. It’s time I do.

Suicide awareness

Many nights, I found myself crying in bed.  I prayed that my mom would hear my sobs, come to my bed and hug me to sleep. But no, I found myself all alone – in my thoughts. There was no way, I could accept being a fagot, a cocksucker. After years of running away from these tormenting words, they were creeping up on me.

Accepting my queer identity was no easy task. I tried to brush it away, pray that God would make me normal. I felt so dirty.

I was bullied – pushed into the girl’s bathrooms, they would spit on my food, I was even kicked while I was on the floor. But the most embarrassing moment was in 5^th grade. We were beginning our comprehensive sexual education, and were separated by genders. As the girls were lining up to leave the room, this boy (Salvador is his name) shouted “Luis, don’t you belong in line with the girls?” Everyone laughed. Everyone but me.  I had never been humiliated in front of everyone, usually the bullying was more intimate – just me and my aggressor(s). Now, even my so-called friends laughed.  I felt my face burning. I starred at the wall, praying for the day to just end.

But, to my surprise – something happened. Someone saw, someone listened. The teacher (Mr. Franco) stopped the class, and in front of everyone asked Sal why he said that to me. Of course, Sal had no excuse. Mr. Franco humiliated Sal and warned him that one day I would be his boss. Although I do not agree with the teacher’s methods of punishment, when Mr Franco spoke up I felt like I was worth something. Mr. Franco saw my potential and knew that I was worth more than that embarrassment.

Thinking about this day just brings so many tears. Something that happened over 12 years ago still scares me. It still makes me weak.  I never told my parents about this, or anything else. I covered it all up by getting good grades, and having them not worry about me. 

Nothing changed in middle school. I felt like middle school would be a new beginning for me. My middle school years were some of the most difficult. I was in 6^th grade when we moved to our new house (meaning my parents had less spare money), I was in 7^th grade when my grandfather died, when my mom had her first cancer surgery. Sometime in middle school, my father also lost his job and we were living off food stamps and unemployment.

I was being bussed to a school where no one knew who I was, or knew of my previous bullying. It didn’t take long for that bullying to continue. From my peers, both male and female, calling me a fag, to spreading rumors about me and my supposed boyfriend (who is now a famous Model), to having my life threatened.

I remember my parents bought me this backpack from the swapmeet in 7^th grade. I was grateful for this backpack, and although I wanted a Jansport – I knew we couldn’t afford it. The following day, at school, I was made fun of for wearing a “fag backpack.” How aweful could we be to each other that I got made fun of for having a backpack that had some light shade of blue. This supposed effeminate backpack made me a fucking fag. I hated that backpack since then. I was fucking poor, my family on fucking welfare, and here these classmates of mine making fun of me for the color of a backpack?

I get so upset now. Angry because I let them get to me, angry because I purposely fucked that backup so I could get a new one, angry because I hated my life.

And I did the same – ran away from these problems, ignored them, got good grades, was valedictorian and pretended I was free of problems.

Until it all crashed on me. My confusion was getting to me. My desires were getting in the way. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was going crazy. I knew what this would mean for my family – shame, disappointment, regret. I promised I would not tell them until I was on my own. But I couldn’t keep it any longer. 

I choked. I failed. I tried taking my life away. I was afraid of cutting myself, so I chose overdosing. I was rushed to the hospital, after my mom heard me vomiting in the bathroom. I was back at home, still feeling dirty and now also stupid.

I now thank the Creator for making me afraid. To those who lost hope, did not loose it in cowardice, but in strength.  I pray that your spirits have found the peace and serenity, we yearn for.

 This is my suicide story. I can relate.

My younger brother was in suicide watch for two months while in high school. During my second year of college, while I was in San Diego, my brother had to be hospitalized. There had been many threats, some attempts, and finally the psychologist had no other option – he was a threat to himself. I had never seen my mother so defeated, and my father so depressed. Seeing him in that awful ward.

See – I was able to hide my scars. He poked too hard, his marks remain alive, even though he wishes he wasn’t. 

I am here to listen, if you ever need me to.

why.

Its 1:15 a.m. and I find myself, again, restless. I don’t understand why I cannot go to sleep. It is all these thoughts that continue to plague me. but I honestly feel like if I am suffocating, suffocating at the fact that I have no where to turn. I don’t want to burden anyone with my melodrama, my internal thoughts. And my best friends – I have, I don’t know why, but pushed out. Why do I push out those who have offered to help me? I need to stop blaming myself, that is the problem. I need to come out a better person, a new person. I need to stop relying on people who are emotionally abusive. It all comes down to that, to the fact that I am unable and unwilling to recognize that I have never actually done something—but rather, I continuously allow myself to become a victim of something. I am trying to recognize what the core of that is – I am uncertain what it looks like.

Why is it that I am always doubting my self-worth? Why is that I always feel like I am not good enough?

Sure, I may feel this. But what am I doing to address this. Am I trying to find the drive of these feelings? Or am I trying to transform myself?  

warmth

Dark voices plague my head.

No they don’t tell me to do dangerous things.

Rather, they make me go crazy.

Not wild, but mad. Upset.

This reminds me of a darker period in my life.

I thought the devil was inside of me.

Controlling my life.

I was a devoted Catholic.

Loved God.

But I also made love to him.

I jerked off with the same hand

I took the eucharist.

I once wrote a poem about it, and presented in my Chicano Literaure class.

I thought I would be stoned. But I wasn’t.

They loved it.

Why I asked myself – would they love the idea of me making love to God?

The darkness never left, rather I hid it.

I’ve always been a very angry child.

I don’t know why or where it comes from. Perhaps the bullying in elementary school and middle school.

In high school. I always worried. I had meltdowns. Broke down. She held me tight. I felt comfortable.

Warmth. I miss it. I miss it.

Aug 21

Its 3 in the morning and I cannot stop thinking about him. This part of my growth and development. My fear, and insecurity—to let go.

This guy I met, and we hunt out for a while. He said something that kept me thinking about my own unwillingness to be intimate with another person. He said, he could not see himself bottoming until he saw himself ready to give himself to someone. Perhaps, I close up, and refuse to let anyone in, to violate my space for deeper reasons. One, I’ve only really bottomed for one person – but I loved him. Moreover, the first person that I bottomed for, it was against my own will.

There is a hurt and pain in my head – because I’ve never been able to call it rape. But I believe it’s a symptom of my own unwillingness to see myself a victim, to see myself actually raped. I let him. I was the one who was willingly there at his place. I said no the first two times, but the last time, the third time he asked me. I stayed silent. It wasn’t because I wanted to, but because I was scared. how would I get back home? What would I tell my mom. He broke me. He tore me. I still remember the pain. He was inside of me, against my own will. I told him to stop, but he insisted on another position. I snuck out of the house to go with him. He said we would go to starbucks and talk. I was upset. Scared. at myself.

And here I am. Unwilling to show love, to anyone else.

The first person inside of me raped me. The second one left me. I tense up. Memories roam, and I fall. I have not healed. I have not been able to forgive, ultimately myself. No. I didn’t let him go. No, it was not my fault.

I will always love him. But I got carried away. I let it all go.

I need to stop blaming myself for it all, and just take proactive steps to re-assemble.

There’s a history of rape in my family. my younger brother, the one who is also gay, was raped in a park by a man they never found. I knew something was wrong, I could feel it inside of me. I called home, but no one answered. I left in a hurry. I got home to an empty house. Everyone was at the police station.

He was silent. Worse than I had ever seen him.

We share a special bond, he does not even know it.

He was traumatized at my own coming out experience. He witnessed the emotional and mental abuse. Not only did he witness it, he also suffered it.

I need to heal then go back. I need to be emotionally strong. I need to be okay with these thoughts and feelings. I am in a vulnerable position right now. 

Aug 19

No one really knows that one of the main reasons why I decided to move to Chicago was to deal with a lot of the emotional and spiritual trauma I had internalized over the years. I am not trying to victimize myself – but I am a victim, a victim of a world that does not know how to appreciate my essence and my worth of life. It really started when I was young, and almost dying. Few know that I was babtized a month after birth because they were afraid I would die and go to hell. Only my mom and godmother were there. My dad was in the United States so he could not make it, my godfather has and will always be absent from my life. It is quite disappointing actually, having his often in my life yet always forgetting what I was to him. I don’t blame him, I blame these feckless expectations I had.

My mom has given me an unconditional type of love, only that she understands.  My mom has her own history of emotional abuse, conditioned by great grandmother. This is too difficult to write. The abuse, this family has seen. Never physical, always by fear. When will it end?

the dream.

This dream of mine continues to be replayed in my head. I am not sure why this specific dream out of the many I have had in the past few weeks, but it continues to haunt me spiritually and personally. What the dream was trying to do, is remind me of how vulnerable I am no matter what kind of façade I continue to proclaim. I think I found a correlation to the dream, and its significance. The night before I was listening to Keysha Cole “Enough of No Love.” I have not cried like this in a while, maybe the last time I did was on my way back from Cabo. I hated myself then, and I hate myself now. But again, this hate is a result of my unwillingness to be broken. I refuse to do so. I continue to think that my mother had something to do with this. With my emotional and psychological abuse. Why i am so tough on myself – but then, why I always make mistakes. It’s like I am an angry child, still full of rage inside. My mother never physically abused us, but she challenged us to be emotionally unavailable. The only time she ever said, “I Love You,” was before I boarded the plane to Chicago. I knew I had to leave to understand her love, rather to be okay with her love. I want to write to her, maybe I will. But later, not now.

For now, here is my dream.

His name is Anthony, and he was a middle school friend. I recently reconnected with him. But I don’t think he had any importance in the dream, I think he was a filler for someone else. He is married and I am good friends with his wife.

Anthony and I were in a relationship, and my family had moved into a new home. A larger home – maybe again, the relationship between my family, my queerness, our social status, etc.

But I was scorned by my mom and warned not to be intimate with this boy of mine. He tried holding my hand, and I pulled away. I don’t know what I was scared about. But fear was running through my body.

Yet, I noticed his resentment. His frustration, I was able to sense how upset he was with me.

Man I don’t understand why this dream was so vivid, and why I liked it so much. It sort of made hopeful, that I should trust in love. that I will find love. but it also made me realize how much more progress I need to make in order to be okay with that.

Back to the dream, at some point, he and I were in some store doing some shopping for this supposed party. He approached me and asked me about why I was so afraid of holding his hand.

This is the pat of me that misses that. The beautiful thing of being able to share with someone. I get tired of being alone. Not because I need a boyfriend, but because I get lost and crazy in my own thoughts. I have so much to say, yet no one to say it to.

Okay so in the dream, I confessed to him that I was scared that I was stuck in the middle of hurting him or disappointing my family. man I want to hold him right now. I just want to hold him in my arms.

We end back at the house, I am holding his hand. I am no longer afraid. I look at my grandma, she smiles at us. I smile back. I look at my dad, he is ecstatic. And my mother, nervous.

See, this is the issue that I am dealing with about negotiating my queerness in action at home. My family say they are okay with it, yet I am still closeted to the rest of my uncles. I mean I don’t care. But I do envision a big queer wedding. Ugh that’s another question, why do I want to replicate heteronormativity? I guess it just makes me so comfortable. Ugh I am a fucking contradiction. Seeking love yet deconstructing it.

stuck

Stuck in the middle of white suburbia in the Midwest. This has been an interesting experience. I am sitting at Bini Bakery, which is next to Red Mango and I see these families coming together and rejoicing with their presence. I am sure they are troubled by many problems, but they just seem so carefree. They talk about school, their relationships, the fun they are having. This is so surreal to me – because I have never lived this experience.

My family only ate out once, that was usually Sundays. And it was never at places where we could just come together and just do things like these.

My experience is raw, it still hurts.   

So I have a degree from one of the greatest institutions in the nation, but it did not prepare me to face the realities of who I am. It has helped me understand my place in society, but it did not prepare me to fully comprehend what it would be like to be a queer brown person with a degree in a world that continues to be so foreign to me. I understand that we are sort of creating these bridges between those who know, and those who do not know. I am aware that my community is emerging and it is progressively becoming something.

I am aware that we will be the ones altering this country. But why do I continue to feel so alone? I know I am physically alone – but I also know that there are so many more people in my life that are continuously helping me. There is a difference between never being alone, yet feeling alone. 

work in progress.

My grandma’s time with us is over, and she has finally arrived safely at her home. These past few weeks with her have, not only been a blessing, but very emotionally and spiritually rewarding. I have been able to talk to her about many topics including politics, love, and most importantly my mother. She has helped me visualize a future project, one I want to dedicate to my mom and all of her work. But it still remains in my imaginary – maybe to be talked about later.

The youngest cousin in Mexico answered the phone when I called a few minutes ago.  This had me thinking, about what her life is like right now. I’ve seen it happen before—everyone gathers around the costales full of someone else’s clothes. To them, it is like Christmas, to us it is charity.  

historical amnesia

The idea of historical amnesia, or as I have also understood it to be called—genetic memory, to me has been a very powerful concept. The idea that although we, the current we, as a people, did not physically undergo, or vividly experience the many atrocities that our community has suffered. Therefore, although I don’t remember much of what I was thought in high school, perhaps as a result of it being a history that was very irrelevant to me. Also, AP American History focused a lot on the formation of this country, and even though the taking of the “southwest” is increasingly important, there is a very little focus paid attention to this. I would argue that it is a result of the curtailment of critical thinking that American educational institutions abide by. If schools begin teaching, in detail, what “really” did happen, how the United States came to be such a huge country, in land mass and in power, students would continue to press difficult questions that would ultimately lead to the understanding that the United States, as an imperialist nation, is a power hungry patriarchal state.

The word patriarchy is a hotly contested one, and few would want to be associated with it. Therefore, by not acknowledging exactly the tools employed by this nation to become such a powerful country, our institutions deny us the opportunity to understand the ideologies that have led us to this.

I find it difficult not to abide by models of feminism, that many (in particular whiteness) consider outdated. Yet, I have a particular interest, proclivity towards feminists of color who strongly contributed to this idea of cultural feminism, the idea of womanhood, the femininity, as a powerful tool that patriarchy tries to subjugate and belittle. Thus, the idea of memory – at least to me, reminds me of this powerful force. The fact that women have had the important task of retelling our peoples story, continuing and keeping the memories alive of the previous tasks, which is why I find it to be such a powerful construction.

Understanding my position, both privileged but also marginalized as my intersectional (and ultimately complex/clashing) identities has led to me the position living within the margins. This marginal space is full of both untold stories as well as mysterious paths leading towards my queer Aztlan. Therefore, understanding my history as a person – queer, hombre, son, Chicano, etc. is key to comprehending where I will be going. But it has been difficult—being born in a country that is constantly denying me the opportunity to be. I was born in Mexico in 1989, and immigrated to the United States in 1993. In terms of socialization, I would argue that I have embraced American values (read as White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchal ideologies). Yet, at the same time I have struggled with naming myself

In coming to terms with my Chicano identity have been “forced” to re-learn a lot. I feel privileged in a way, although at also times plagued by this onus—when I was in high school, I had the prerogative of attending a program dedicated for young Chicana/os. As a result of those programs, I began my own process of conocimineto, and thus co-enrolled in several community college courses, mainly Chicano/a Studies at East LA College. In addition, our high school offered Mexican-American Studies and Chicano Literature, and since my older brother took it, I had access to some knowledge about what it meant to be brown in the United States. 

shadow beast

Earlier today I was reminded of my shadow beast. Rather, it is always here—it never leaves. More like, it came out in the open—not by me, but by someone else. He asked me, “Why are you so self conscious?” Him saying this spoke volumes of my own inability to actually begin writing this. I have known about this prompt for a couple of days. I have sat down, on many attempts, to write and finish this. But I was scared. I am scared. I am stuck. 

The borderlands is a place of uncertainty—that location is often unmapped because it is not always physical. There is a stalwart sense of urgency, and thus requires lots of moving. That shift may be controlled, but frequently it is exuding jubilance. For me, this apperception of fleeing, even what I call home, contributes to my process yearning a sense of agency. The knack to visualize nostalgic feelings is a very powerful device one must be willing to embrace.

Living in the margins now, as a queer Chicano. To many, it feels like I am running away from some dominant group that is frequently chasing me. There have been many things that I have done as a result of surviving. Can we be punished for simply trying to survive? Or should we be targeting the reasons that have caused us to flee from the dominance.

To think of my shadow beast, is to imagine this metaphysical object or feeling that I cannot really touch. Its strange, sometimes I feel it is peevish. Then I am reminded that trying to belittle my own feelings and pain is a product of again, my shadow beast. Even in my own sense of liberation, and consciousness, my shadow beast sneaks up on me. We have been conditioned to think of beasts as something dark, carnivorous, animalistic, as if it were describing the stereotypes of what is meant to be a subordinated person of color, queer, womyn, etc.

Marginalized communities have been targets of terroristic attacks in different manifestations. For Latino/as living in the United States, one of those specific attacks is in the form of linguistic terrorism. In “Borderlands” Anzaldua argues that linguistic terrorism represents the actions by groups within the dominance power to try and curtail the linguistic expression of those in marginalized communities.

I write to survive. I organize to live. I live for liberation. My essence of existing is one marked by my intersecting, frequently clashing and always changing identities: poor, Brown, queer, middle-class, fat, immigrant, male, versatile bottom, student, lover, friend, son, fuck buddy, etc. When I write, I have an audience in mind: he is always Brown, and more than likely queer. He cries himself to sleep and prays to La Virgencita to make him normal, to rid him of those impure thoughts that haunt him in his sleep. He rides the bus from East LA to visit tha older man he met online that has promised him a couple of bucks after they fuck. I write with that joto that didn't make it, in mind. The one who took his own life becuase he could no longer tolerate the pain he felt inside after getting rejected by his parents. The one who could not find shelter in his home after getting his ass beat at school. I write with that Chicano in mind. 

Yet, I am afraid that I will remain silent – that I will not be able to speak out my verdades. My shadow best is my fear—fear of being myself. That for once, I, no longer the cowardly brown man, joto, with the power to speak. I am self conscious of my voice, not exactly in tone and sound, but in my (in)ability to speak. It’s a combination of internalized racism, homophobia, and xenophobia, etc. It is a painful experience reminiscing on my own transition. It hurts to think of myself, a younger me. To remember my own thoughts of being brown. I hated myself.

I knew I was not White. I knew I could never be white. But I tried…and failed.

I am so afraid. I am afraid of not being able to compete. Because, although I am de-colonizing myself and my proclivities to be better. I am always doubting myself. I am always comparing myself. Because this is all new to me and my family.

I really don’t wan to fail them. Yes, this is about me—but most importantly, this is also about my family.

Which is why I value my words so much. My ability to write and speak – is my power. But I am always conscious of what I write, how do it. To some, it is solely an artistic representation. To me, it is my voice, my power, my life. I am self-conscious because it is one of the few things I have. And as a result, it is always being ridiculed. How to break a queer Chicano down, tear his words apart. That is all he has.  How can I get over the thoughts in my head that are always saying, “your writing sucks?” I know this assignment is about continuing without looking back, trying not to erase anything. It is hard when this whole time I have been trained to write, erase, try harder, erase again.

How can I speak so freely?

cultural schizophrenia

I would frequently write and argue that being both queer and Chicano was a contradiction. But I am beginning to feel, and understand that perhaps it isn’t a contradiction that I want to believe, but one that has been imposed on me to feel self-hatred. Granted, the idea of Chicanismo and its manifested identity, is socially constructed; it was popularized following the Chicano (emphasis on the o) movement. Whereas, being queer was not something that was acceptable to the community because it was seen as an anti-family, anti-Raza identity, solely because being queer would mean the inability to “re”produce for the revolution. 

Whereas, being queer has always been seen as a white middle class issue, because that is what is often depicted in the media, and the leaders of the larger queer community are gay.

 The interesting contradiction here though is that the people that were leading both movements in the 60s were people of color, and in many instances queer. For example, it was queer people of color, especially genderqueer and transgender folk, who were at the frontlines of the Stonewall Riots. In addition, it was queer people of color, like Bayard Rustin, who were leading Civil Rights movements. But of course, these things, these details gets lost because hegemonic forces are trying to tell a specific kind of history – one that ignores the identities, or often the actual livelihood, of people.

 To be, or fee, cultural schizophrenic, is to like a game of tug-of-war. There are forces on both sides that are trying to pull into a specific idea or identity. For example, the idea of assimilation for many immigrant and immigrant families, is to forget where one comes from and to conform into the mainstream hegemonic culture. Perhaps for other immigrants, that has been much easier. But for those from Mexico, especially in my case, that has been not been the case. Considering the fact that I still have people in Mexico whom I still call family, and the fact that we are often traveling to Mexico, makes it harder to completely forget those roots.

 Even though I am an immigrant to this country, my socialization occurred within Eurocentric/American institutions and ideologies. It’s very interesting because my parents were okay with the fact that I was growing up with different cultural attitudes. For example, my parents to some extent, encouraged this culture of consumerism. Because they were trying to protect us from bullying, and because they wanted us to fit it, they often bought us clothes and accessories that although we did not need, they thought would protect us. We then were forced to create this image of wealth, and haves, to demonstrate some sort of capital.

 Although, this is a very physical understanding of cultural schizophrenia, a more emotional and hurtful one came in the power of language. It has been hard not being able to communicate with the language that I was taught that has been the hardest for me.

It has become an issue that in my inability to speak, because I have been forced, as a result of linguistic terrorist, forget who I am, as a result of loosing my language.

 It  is very interesting however, that the narrative is not so much about loosing our culture, but rather about how to integrate them. Living in los Angeles, especially it has been easier to talk about retaining ones culture, as opposed to forget it. Therefore, my cultural upbringing has been that of Chicanismo – both brown and White. My understanding has been about cultural fusions—the mixture of cultures. The cultural fusions I can relate to the most are Mexican and Asian. It is represented in Korean barbeque tacos, for example.

 As Latinos become the majority in this state, and soon becoming equally dominant (in population) with Whites, I would argue that the cultures would no longer be clashing but meshing. Therefore, it will not be a pull between cultures, but rather Chicano/as will be dictating cultural norms.