Immigration, legal or otherwise

Do you really want to live without Mexican food?

America, you better think twice. ¡No Mexicans, no burritos! Next time you’re about to bite into that burrito, will you ask yourself, “Is this burrito here legally?” Of course not! You crave that tasty burrito, and you’ll enjoy every bite of it.

Not many people really think about citizenship in their day-to-day existence, unless of course, they’re not U.S. citizens. No one really thought about how many Mexicans were in the Midwest until the immigration marches last year. Since then, everyone seems obsessed by a person’s state of citizenship, whether or not they’re here legally. It’s an immigration version of the House Un-American Committee, or the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy in the military. Now whenever I read about Mexicans in the news, there’s no doubt if the subject is a citizen because the author will state their citizenship status. Or, if not a citizen, we read something like, “does want to give last name because he/she is not a citizen.”

On the July 4, I read “Squeegee economics” in the Chicago Tribune about Chicago skyscraper window washers from Mexico. For example, Salvador Mariscal of García de la Cadena, México, cleans the windows of the John Hancock Center and he’s a legal immigrant. Juan Ortiz, who worked illegally in Chicago for three years, is mentioned by name because he is now living in México again. Would you believe the Tribune reported that there are illegal immigrants washing skyscraper windows in Chicago?

Maybe we should work on the immigration reform bill a little harder. If we deport all the illegal Mexicans, we won’t have burritos and we’ll have dirty windows to boot.

Singular plurals

In Chicago, we have a very special way of speaking English. That’s right. Da Mayor’s (pronounced “da mare”) English, with its dem [them] and dose [those]. However, in Chicago, each neighborhood also has its own dialect. In some cases, you can tell from which neighborhood, or parish in the old days, someone hails. But my favorite topic of all grammatical points in the study of Da Mayor’s English is the formation of plurals. This may vary greatly from neighborhood to neighborhood. For example, the plural of the pronoun “you” in the Queen’s English is “you.” On the Southside, however, the plural is “youse guys,” but no one knows the correct spelling because it’s only used in conversation and has the unique power to include males and/or females. My other favorite formation of a plural is derived from “man.” In certain neighborhoods, one male is a “man.” Two or three males are “men.” Four or five males are “mens.” More than five males are “menses” (two syllables), as in “Hey, all y’all. There’s ten menses on the corner.” The logic of this is just so … well, so logical. Sometimes, a plural form is made where none exists: Soldier Field becomes Soldiers Field. On the other hand, some plural words inadvertently become singular: “I’m going to the Cub game.” And of course, the plural of “police” is “polices” (three syllables), as in “The polices asked me how many feet are in a yard and I said, ‘It depends on how many peoples are in the yard!'”

There are twenty feets on the corner! — DDR

Ese

I’ve had a few of my Spanish students ask me were the Spanish term, ese comes from.

Well, now it can be told! I really believe my abuelita, my grandmother, started it. When we had our holiday parties, say for Thanksgiving Dinner or Christmas at my uncle’s house, more than one-hundred family members and friends would show up. We didn’t always know everyone’s name. This was before the invention of nametags. I remember asking people there, “And how are we related?” “I’m your cousin Agustín. You met me in Mexico when we were four.” “Oh, yeah, now I remember you,” I would lie. At every party, I would always meet a new family member whose name I would forget by the next party.

I have never been good at remembering names, but my abuelita had an even worse memory for names. I do believe I inherited this deficiency from my abuelita. At dinner, everyone would have to eat in shifts in the kitchen. She would make sure that everyone at the party ate in a smooth, systematic manner.

With my abuelita coordinating everyone and controlling the distribution of food, no one went hungry. Of course, that would involve everyone in close proximity of my abuelita to participate and obey her direct commands to the letter. The punishment for disobeying was a rap to the hand with a wooden spoon! Everyone entering the kitchen was on their toes.

So if you were standing by the stove and she didn’t remember your name, she would point at you and say, “Ese, dame el arroz.” [That one, give me the rice.] Since my abuelita couldn’t remember very many names, just about everyone in the house became ese. So now whenever I hear a Mexican say, “Oye, ese,” I think of my abuelita!

Street people

Okay, all you people working on the streets of Chicago. Leave me alone!

You, selling “Ice-cold water! Ice-cold water!” Don’t tap on my window. I’m not hot and thirsty because I’m in an air-conditioned car!

Hey Homeless Man, stop asking me for money for food. At least be honest. Just say you want to buy a bottle of whiskey. The last time I gave you my sandwich, I saw you throw it away.

Squeegee guy! Please don’t squeegee my windshield clean when it’s raining out. That’s why I have the windshield wipers on!

Preacher Man, yeah you with the portable sound system standing on the corner of Washington and State. Don’t preach to me when I’m walking arm in arm with my date for a night on the town. Do I look like I’m preoccupied by Eternal Damnation?

Newspaper Dude, pay attention to your customers. When I actually want to buy a newspaper, I want service with a smile. I don’t have time to wait for you while you flirt with the crossing guard.

Mr. Street Salesman, if I’m wearing a suit and tie, I most certainly don’t want to buy white socks!

Hey Lady of the Evening standing on the corner! I really don’t want to take you out on a date! Ever!

Mr. Sax Player, no one wants to hear the same Christmas carol over and over again in July!

Hey! Bucket Boys! I have nothing against the Bucket Boys, but get a performer’s license so you won’t ever have to run away from the police again!

Leave me alone! Sorry. Not you, Officer! — DDR

Independence Day lakefront festivities

Well, I celebrated Independence Day with my sons in our backyard yesterday. Nothing fancy. We just shot up some bottle rockets for an hour and then went inside. I enjoy the simple things in life. I live in an integrated neighborhood and many families on the block did the same thing. That was showing the American spirit!

This morning I read Hoy, the Spanish newspaper published by the Chicago Tribune, and their front page story talked about all the Mexicans who came from all over Chicago and suburbs such as Carpentersville, Romeoville, and Bolingbrook to the Chicago lakefront to celebrate the Fourth of July. The Espinoza family came to Chicago to celebrate because they liked that other Hispanic families were there, too. But Chicago has always been friendly to immigrants. I know from personal experience because I lived in Pilsen and Back of the Yards before they became predominantly Hispanic.

We should always remember that America is a melting pot, a salad bowl, and/or the land of immigrants.

Share

Share

Share

Share

Share