Red, Brown & Blue

Does it seem insensitive for a mosque to be built near Ground Zero? Sure it does. I imagine for those who lost loved ones that September 11th, it must certainly seem callous, and defiant in the face of the resulting outcry. On the other hand, should we respect the right of a New York Muslim congregation to build a place of worship in Lower Manhattan? Of course, we should. This is America. And the principle of religious freedom and tolerance is at the core of our founding vision.

So why the big hoopla?

If it is, I was born a crack-baby. I was born craving the bubbly. I was one of those Mexican-American babies with that fizzling dark liquid in their bottle you shake your head at. I grew up on Coca-Cola. It accompanied breakfast, lunch and dinner. No joke, I used to drink a two-liter bottle… per day.

Think that’s funny?

I was a shitty big brother to my sibling eight years my junior, which is normal. Let me tell you what’s not. One time when he pissed me off, I made him drink water and he threw up everywhere. What’s more sickening? The act I committed against my brother or the fact that his body rejected one of the most important elements of the human body, because it was so foreign to him.

I rose up from tough circumstances and persevered. Today, I have everything a man could want – toys, beautiful women who keep me company at home and at work, clothes, a daughter who speaks multiple languages and is faster than a grown man, a car that’s faster than yours, 11th floor view from the living room, you name it – I got it. One of the greatest things I have is control over is my life. I do what I want, when I want.

"Los Cantores"

Reflections on the art of Carla Veliz, featured in the Instituto Cultural de México’s “Remarkable Paradigms” exhibit for International Women’s Month.

Staring at Carla Veliz’s Los Cantores, I swoon with the rhythms implied in its curves and undulating lines. I yearn to tap my feet in unison with the festive percussion of a geometrically rendered pineapple pattern in the background. I am inspired by the pair of lovers interlaced and framed within the voluptuous and fiery heart of a Latina, represented by a ruby mane shaped like a corazón. The two dance and jointly hold a malleable guitar as their figures intertwine indistinguishably. Who is strumming? Who is playing? Who is watching? None of it matters as the cantores fuse into one kaleidoscopic being, two Latinos singing, dancing and loving as one vivid manifestation of culture and passion.

I sit in another room, and yet again I cannot help but stare, fighting back my strict, traditional upbringing. My eyes open wide as a fascinated child’s, absorbing a vast landscape of muted tones, ochers and browns, rust and hints of the pale blue sky of yet another in a seemingly endless series of melancholically squandered afternoons fading into dusk. A swath of tattered screen spanning the vertical length of the canvas transports me to moments trapped behind a closed porch door, listening to the adults converse outside and yearning to be heard. The words grooved onto the canvas – “Tenia tanto que decir, pero nadie me escuchaba” – lament the unrequited desire for expression, for acknowledgement, for validation. “I had so much to say, but no one would listen.”

They say it’s not polite to stare, but in this case it’s okay because in studying Carla Veliz’s works of art you are taking a long, hard look at your self. Her works speak directly to the diverse soul of Latino culture: capturing a dazzling range of emotions and imagery, from figurative to abstract, from celebration to sorrow, from longing to loss, from shimmering beauty to foreboding darkness. But in her ambitious artistic odyssey, something magical happens amidst swirls of paint, explosions of wax and fragments of found objects colliding and fusing: Carla Veliz transcends her roots and her context. She taps into currents that run universally through all of us. Love, danger, joy, tragedy – at times surely experienced as a Latina raised along the US-Mexico border, a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend – are presented in such a way through Carla’s paintings that we are reminded that the common truths that bind us together outweigh the nuances which render us unique.

Angelica Christina Lopez, when skimming through a list of names, one would think, WOW, now that’s a typical tongue-rolling Mexican name. But once that name is placed with the individual another thought comes into play, a more confused, “is she mixed or not” thought races one’s mind. My name is Angelica Christina Lopez, I consider myself a Mexican American, but when asked “what part of Mexico are you from”, I hesitate. Both grandmothers and one grandfather were born in a small Texas town called Uvalde; I pronounce it “YouValdee”, not “OOvalde”. Granted it could be considered a border town, but that’s beside the point. My parents were born and raised there as well. Growing up I had this long Latino name that seemed to be the only thing I could pronounce in the language I was supposed to be speaking. For the sake of better job opportunities, my parents moved to Houston where the culture shock hit them and my home began.

So it’s that time of year, time for tamales, and champurrado, and buñuelos, and pozole!

Llegaron las Fiestas Navideñas!

For Latinos, the Christmas Holidays bring many great memories of delicious food and good times con toda la familia.

Being Latino, I come from a very Catholic family where Christmas is celebrated with old traditions with family and friends, celebrating all the Christmas traditions that are common in Mexico, from before the birth of Christ, until El Dia de la Candelaria where the Nativity is put away for the year.