I'm first and foremost a Nash fan

As you may have noticed, I am now running on two blogs. I let this one die a bit because the newbie is my attempt to keep a pulse on the political sphere. Nonetheless, I don’t want to mix business with pleasure. Of course as most geeky kids who couldn’t grow past 5’6” and help the Suns overcome the West and bring a championship to a city that is in desperate need for a makeover, my business and pleasure are (drum roll)… writing.

The only difference, I want one blog to stand for poetic justice and the other to morph into what I hope will be a fair and balanced portrayal of news and reporting.

The only time I might be completely bias is this time of year. Yes! Magic might be the best point guard of all time, but Steve Nash comes a close second. No hardware, but the man has talent, passion and heart. I must admit that before this morning, I questioned the two-time MVP’s motivation and true desire to chase the most coveted prize in professional basketball, but after today, I won’t question that anymore.

I stopped watching the game yesterday midway through the third quarter because based on the tempo; I wasn’t ready for another heartbreaking season. You know the seasons before the Gasol trade where the Suns were the clear favorite to win but just couldn’t muster enough size to get to the finals. The style made famous by Mike D’Antoni known as “Seven seconds or less,” was fun but it wasn’t enough.

I got into the Suns for two reasons. One Kobe and Shaq started to act like infants following a 2004 debacle. Kobe got all badass and tatted himself-up amid sexual allegations — an image he swore against and shun early in his Laker years. The other reason…? My nickname in high school was Nash. Out of flattery, I started to watch his style of play in Dallas and quickly fell in love with the Canadian.

Then he moved to Phoenix and I moved to Phoenix. Yes sir we have a connection Nash you just don’t know it.

Nonetheless, despite our cosmic link, every year was the same. Win a bunch of games in the regular season but come short — literally — in the playoffs. The one year that I swore with all the fiber of my being that the Suns were going to win it all, “Big Shot” Bob takes out Nash.

Another bitter end only this time It wasn’t lack of effort but a league’s poor decision to suspend most of the Suns’ starting lineup and a disappointing move by, Horry, a player I liked so much…Everyone in Phoenix that I watched the sport with always said, “Well maybe next year.”

…eventually the New York Yankees of the NBA realized Tinsel Town had infinite cap space and signed the most underrated center in the league…the Spaniard Paul Gasol. When I heard the news, I knew it was over. Paul is something else and for a moment, I was all aboard the Lakers Express, but my nickname, at least at heart, was still Nash.

This year they made me believe again. Yesterday, through my own fault I bought the notion that the Suns had no chance. I missed a nail bitter and Alvin Gentry hugging a crying Nash. That image spoke a thousand words and personified the many seasons I followed Steve. The man I thought just played for the fun of it, showed the heart of a champion. Nash, 113 playoff games without a ring, but he is the best point-guard of this era and second all-time. A true ambassador of the sport—screw the haters, Steve Nash is the greatest point guard of all-time. He will be an instant hall of famer, not when he takes off his jersey, but the moment the fourth-quarter buzzer goes off his final season.

(Picture is mine. Took it last year at a game that, despite the loss, made me feel like a child again)

SpeakeasyDC Looking for Diversity

This is from Amy Sedman coordinator at SpeakeasyDC she is looking for more Hispanic Diversity at her shows. The following is a brief written by Saidman regarding information about the Washington D.C. based Organization

SpeakeasyDC is as non-profit performing arts organization based in Washington, DC that is dedicated to the simple art of telling true stories on stage. We produce over 20 shows a year including a monthly open mic series and a number of special events. We offer extensive coaching and a variety of classes and learning opportunities each year.

We would love to hear more Latino voices on our stage. All are welcome to perform at our monthly open mic storytelling series. It takes place on the 2nd Tuesday of every month in Washington, DC (U Street, NW) and serves an audience of over 3000 a year. Each night there is a theme (such as “Survivor: Stories about getting by, toughing it out and working the system”). Free coaching is provided.
You can see videos, listen to our podcast, sign up to tell a story, and find out more at http://www.speakeasydc.org/.

For those not quite ready to jump right on stage, SpeakeasyDC offers a variety of classes. Our next four-week comprehensive courses–Storytelling 101—will begin on June 15, 2010, and our next scheduled one-day Storytelling Boot Camp will take place on July 31, 2010. Both classes are for beginners. We are offering a 25% discount on classes to anyone who mentions Hispanic Link through the November 30, 2010. Email info@speakeasydc.org and include “Hispanic Link Discount” in the subject.

A Chicano Moves to the Suburbs--I like this column

Column No. 1482
HISPANIC LINK
March 26, 1989
A CHICANO MOVES TO THE SUBURBS
By William O. Medina
I grew up in the barrio, where most of my neighbors ate tamales for Christmas and went to a Catholic church. Spanish drowned out English at the local market, and no one was ashamed to hang wet clothing form the family laundry line. I viewed my World form the perspective of a lifer, someone who would spend his entire earthly existence in the barrio.
Then last year I moved to the white suburbs of Southern California’s Riverside County. Friends and relatives congratulated me on doing the right thing. Home-ownership is something they considered a wise investment.
But a home is more than an investment, and for someone like me who doesn’t understand the logia of Homeowner Association rules that prohibit leaving your garage door open, the suburbs remain strange.
My new neighborhood is replete with block parties that spew the aroma of barbecued steaks and spare ribs. I always decline invitations to attend — for valid reasons. My precinct is overwhelmingly Republican; I’ve marched on picket lines boycotting grapes and protested against Ronald Reagan’s cuts to education health and other critical social programs.
I’m afraid my feelings may be construed by my neighbors as anti-American. It would be suburban suicide for me to engage in any backyard small talk.
My new neighbors work hard during the week and view weekends as mini-vacations. Come Friday, laden with boats, jet skis and motorcycles, they pilot their campers toward the nearest blue-collar playgrounds. Skimming lake waters at frightening speeds, climbing Suicide Hill and sleeping on hard dirt helps them forget about their 40-hour weeks.
I can’t relate to that. Like my homeboys back in the barrio, I still work most weekends and don’t have such toys of escape. Barrio residents can’t afford the cost of fleeing from their monotony or anxieties. When I was growing up, we went to the city park during summer vacation or stayed at home inventing simplistic games using a water hose. While we placed, our parents sat Ander a tree and watched.
Among my new neighbors, a recurring question is: “What do you do for a living?” Obviously, if you can afford payments on a new home in Southern California, you must have a job. In the barrio, such inquiries are taboo. The jobs have lees dignity and status; layoffs are not uncommon. It often takes tow menial jobs to make ends meet. Asking about a person’s job can cause embarrassment. We shun people who boast about how important or rich they are.
My suburban neighbors deny that their yards compete, but they do. For a while, I became involved in the tacit competition. I wanted the greenest and cleanest yard. A magazine article told me that sprinklers were harsh on infant grass, so I spent untold hours catering my first lawn by hand, hurrying outside each morning to welcome virgin blades of grass that had emerged during the night.
As I stood watching my green carpet grow, one neighbor would visit me and share the secrets that were going to make him fabulously wealthy. He had figured it out, down to the minute, how much Money he earned.
In the barrio, we had concerns that took precedence over luxuries and the health of our plants. There was the constant whining noise of Butcher Boys, a burrito factory across the street that made sitting outdoors unbearable. Enjoying our flower and vegetable gardens at night became increasingly hazardous with the proliferation of gang violence.
In my new neighborhood, we complain about uninvited dogs in the garden. In my old, the concern was uninvited bullets.
In the barrio, we never fretted over commuter traffic. Here in suburban Moreno Valley, the freeways are like parking lots every morning and evening, thousands of vehicles strung bumper to bumper. I sometimes sense that my roots, once deep in barrio clay, are inching into my vitamin-fed lawn and large monthly house payment. I fear that some future summer I might weaken and join a neighbor’s backyard barbecue party.
But I am a transplant and must remain a product of my past. In a mad, nostalgic moment, I may yet defy my neighbors and leave my garage door open all day long. I can never move completely out of the barrio.
(William O. Medina manages a family restaurant in Riverside, California.)
Copyright 1989, Hispanic Link News Service.

Then I see Piolín

I move clandestine with my camera through the vast crowd, click, click, click. I get on the media risers — click. I make my way down and look for interesting angles and people… click. Drums, chanting, praying, the anthem Sí se puede, and a tint of humidity in the air, I’m sweating now. The images are colorful and alive. I’m on my knees, up high, down low and all over — yup, this is another shooting assignment, but with my emotions attached to every click.
This is personal. I’m a immigrant covering immigration. I somehow manage to keep it together— until I see Piolín.
For those who don’t know who he is, he is a syndicated radio host. At the rally, he was the last speaker...

…But back home Piolín is also the one my father and I would listen to every morning.

When he came down from the stage, I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was a fan I turned off my camera. “Piolín, can you send a shout-out to my father? He listens to you every morning from Phoenix.” He did.
I ran home, called my dad and played the greeting to him. I could tell from his voice he was exited.
On my day at the rally, I can still be a fan

Link to pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2475028&id=3436036&l=c3f225fd70

The Fragments that got me here

Phoenix—November 27, 2009 my life is about to take an unexpected turn. It’s a Friday morning; my brothers and cousin are watching Star Trek. I’m sitting in the sofa putting the last touches on my letter of intent and resume. I had gotten the edits from Lisa a day or two earlier, now I had the old and too familiar feeling of a deadline breathing down my neck.

I read line by line, making sure “there” isn’t “their” and “whether” isn’t “weather.”

I pace around the living room, go upstairs come down stairs, grab a snack, pacing, back and forth—“Is it ready?” “Do I have a shot?”

Send

Half-hour later my nerves ease up a bit. I realize I’m back to being me again. My phone goes off….

“202….”

--Hello this is Charlie Ericksen…

(Holy crap)

“…We would like to schedule an interview with you later today…”

The interview came and went.

24 hours later I’m coming home from Sahuaro Park dreading the rain because it cancelled a soccer game—one that took two trips to get to with no game ever taking place.

I’m driving back looking at the cloudy horizon on the 101 North. What a sight.

My phone rings…

“202…”

--We just got done checking your sources…you are the type of person we want to be working for us this spring…

My life hasn’t been this good,

What would have happened if I played soccer? Perfection perhaps.

Real men must not fear the kitchen

I'm a hot piece of man, but I must admit that with all my perfections I still need to work out some kinks.

Today I’m trying my hand at cooking dinner—and I mean not just making me some eggs, but real “honey, I’m home cooking.”

I got the Foreman grill out, cut the meat into pieces, per internet advice, marinated the meat as best I could using—vinegar, lemon, oranges, and some foreign kitchen spice substance. I then put the marinated slices on the grill and waited. It smelled good, but it tasted horrendous. Actually, the texture was doable, but it was too dry. There goes sixth dollars worth of meat.

The rice—I am still waiting to see, but if my previous venture is any indicator—I’m dead meat!

I’ve always feared the kitchen, not because of the cultural machismo that plague many men, but because I grew with a family of sixth.

This meant that if I screwed up six dollars worth of meat, I would be exiled and excommunicated from my family—and that’s assuming I got off lightly. My point is if six people don’t eat on account of someone’s Rachel Ray venture, there would be blood in the house and I don’t mean the movie.

Father screaming: “There goes $7.50 cents of meat, 2 percent of the electric bill, and one-tenth of the gas bill.”

Mother screams: “You’ve burned my spatula and darken my fork,”

Sister: “What were you thinking?”

Brothers: “Thanks a lot ass.”

But my hope and call to action is simply—Men do not fear the kitchen.

In my case, it is the only thing keeping me from being a Sexy Deity. I've met my match, my worthy adversary, but assuming I don't go broke, I intend on overcoming it.

Shifting

Every, evening, just before the sun sets he leaves his apartment, walks four blocks to the nearby plaza and sits outside a café. This is a common ritual, except sometimes he grades papers, sometimes he writes briefs, and sometimes he simply looks at his computer to see what others have said about his freelanced articles. Everyday, however, he sits, drinks a warm coffee and becomes an observer.

Today he proofs and edits a Sunday morning sermon that his good friend will give later in the week. Before going over the piece, he sits and stares as the people as they pass. In the early evening, he notices the after school students going into the library, children leaving with their mothers, asking them if they could read a particular children's book before going to bed. As the sun sets, the plaza drifts from a cool afternoon breeze to a sea of streetlights and lamppost illuminating a shifting crowd—the age demographic has changed. Now the kids are older. They resemble students he teaches Monday and Wednesday at the city’s community college.

By now, he has enjoyed the transient motion, finished his coffee, typed the edits for his friend’s sermon, and pulled out the literature papers that he has to finish grading by tonight.

There she is. His one inconsistency in an otherwise perfect world—she is the one person that has thrown his world out of sync and into chaos. She has dark wavy hair y los ojos de una gitana. He melts just at the sight of them. In her, he sees adventure, vitality and freedom—everything he lacks.

They have exchanged brief conversations before, but today she is with her crowd of usual friends. He is too involved in meeting deadline. In a moment, his eyes tire. He looks away from his papers for a second and looks up. She stares back at him. The silent stare is enough to speak volumes of what they feel.

She is Muslim

He is Christian

Before the night is over, she makes her way to him.

—Do you think your God would forgive you if, in the name of Love, you gave up his name?

He smiles. Gets up, puts his papers in his bag, without ever taking his eyes away from her. He met deadline, pulls his chair in. They walk away from the well-lit plaza in a perfect silhouette.