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Mexican Quotes

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Mexican Quotes

“That's not how I want to live, Amá." I'm not sure if I'm supposed to speak, but I can't help it. "I'm sorry that I'm not Olga and I never will be. I love you, but I want a different life for myself. I don't want to stay home. I don't even know if I ever want to get married or have kids. I want to go to school. I want to see the world. I want so many things sometimes I can't even stand it. I feel like I'm going to explode." Amá doesn't say anything. We all sit in silence until Adelita tells us to hold hands for the closing play.”

“With my white friends, I’m always half Mexican. They never say I’m half Irish. Never say I’m half white. Like I’m tainted halfway from the standard. It’s like when I was a kid and I thought vanilla ice cream meant no flavor, like it was the base of all of the flavors. But vanilla is a bean. Like chocolate is a bean. Like cinnamon is a root. All roots and beans. All flavors. There is no base. No ice cream without a flavor.”

“Luz cleared her throat. “I’ve always said, ‘Getting a foothold in a country that doesn’t want you is daunting, but determination and good manners can go a long way.’ So, be careful. Gays are outsiders too . . . just like us.” Luz smiled. “But, life in the shadows isn’t so bad.” “You don’t have a Green Card?” Zoe asked. “No. And I’m not attracted to men. But I’ll never be Mexican again. I’m a child of free enterprise, wandering through an international marketplace. I may only work in a nail salon, but at least I’m part of America’s circus of self-invention.”

“Assorted types of churros offered with Mexican hot chocolate, café con leche, and/or a ramekin of cajeta I made churros all day yesterday and I've set them on different plates in front of Fawn, Dee, and Merry Carole the next morning at the salon. I've used different types of sugar and fried them at different temperatures and for different amounts of time. For dipping, I've made a batch of café con leche and Mexican hot chocolate made with cinnamon (canela) and just a pinch of cayenne pepper. I also offer a small ramekin of cajeta, which is a caramelly concoction made from goat's milk that I may have become obsessed with lately.”

“Saturday is birthday cake day. During the week, the panadería is all strong coffee and pan dulce. But on weekends, it's sprinkle cookies and pink cake. By ten or eleven this morning, we'll get the first rush of mothers picking up yellow boxes in between buying balloons and paper streamers. In the back kitchen, my father hums along with the radio as he shapes the pastry rounds of ojos de buey, the centers giving off the smell of orange and coconut. It may be so early the birds haven't even started up yet, but with enough of my mother's coffee and Mariachi Los Camperos, my father is as awake as if it were afternoon. While he fills the bakery cases, my mother does the delicate work of hollowing out the piñata cakes, and when her back is turned, I rake my fingers through the sprinkle canisters. During open hours, most of my work is filling bakery boxes and ringing up customers (when it's busy) or washing dishes and windexing the glass cases (when it's not). But on birthday cake days, we're busy enough that I get to slide sheet cakes from the oven and cover them in pink frosting and tiny round nonpareils, like they're giant circus-animal cookies. I get to press hundreds-and-thousands into the galletas de grajea, the round, rainbow-sprinkle-covered cookies that were my favorite when I was five. My mother finishes hollowing two cake halves, fills them with candy- green, yellow, and pink this time- and puts them back together. Her piñatas are half our Saturday cake orders, both birthday girls and grandfathers delighting at the moment of seeing M&M's or gummy worms spill out. She covers them with sugar-paste ruffles or coconut to look like the tiny paper flags on a piñata, or frosting and a million rainbow sprinkles.”

“I went to the butcher and the farm stands yesterday. I brined my chicken for four hours, set the alarm, and then did a buttermilk soak for another four. The chicken will be spectacular. I drove out to this liquor store off I-35 that I know sells the real Cokes- in beautiful glass bottles from Mexico. Purists believe Mexican Coke is far better because they use refined cane sugar, not high-fructose corn syrup. I am one of these purists. I also purchase Coke in a can and the regular American Coke, which is in one of those beautiful light green glass bottles that's Americana personified.”

“The dream I had was on a certain night. And in the dream the traveler appeared. What night was this? In the life of the traveler when was it that he came to spend the night in that rocky posada? He slept and events took place which I will tell you of, but when was this? You can see the problem. Let us say that the events which took place were a dream of this man whose own reality remains conjectural. How assess the world of that conjectural mind? And what with him is sleep and what is waking? How comes he to own the a world at night at all? Things need a ground to stand upon. As every soul requires a body. A dream within a dream makes other claims than what a man might suppose.”

“...lies...drive immigrants, and people of color...to change who we are in order to make us palatable, or at least tolerable, to white America. I didn't find freedom in assimilation because there is no freedom in racist ideas. Assimilation requires that the story we tell about the United States and about white people is an uplifting, inspiring, sugarcoated version of the facts, in which the whip, guns, and racist motives must remain hidden. But it was the truth about this country, the knowledge of its ugly dirty secrets, that set me free.”

“We are finally seeing that success doesn't have to happen outside our community or in spite of our heritage. We are rejecting the notion that success is found in whiteness because that kind of thinking has never led us anywhere good. The antidote for the poison of the oppressor is to embrace our brownness, because it is our culture that is propelling us.”

“In the case of the Chicanx population, the US conquest and annexation of Mexican territory (a geographical area extending from Texas to California) following the Mexican American War (1846-1848) created a situation in which people of Mexican ancestry became subject to White domination...It was the general feeling among White settlers that they were superior to Mexicans...The question of how Mexicans should be classified racially was decided in 1897 by Texas courts, which ruled that Mexican Americans were not White. In California, they were classified as 'Caucasian' until 1930, when the state attorney general decided they should be categorized as 'Indians,' though 'not considered "the original American Indians of the US"'.”

“The Pi Betas had accepted the fact that Rose was Mexican, but it was obvious they would just as soon ignore it. And they seemed to assume Rose wanted to do that, too. The other girls might not be overtly disturbed by the fact that Rose was a chicana, but they certainly were not going to encourage her to explore her heritage. No, if Rose joined the Pi Betas, she would have to deny the biggest part of herself. She would have to become completely American.”

“I am an undocumented transfer student to UCLA. This university has always been my dream, but being here has been on of the hardest experiences of my life. I do not receive financial aid, and I do not meet any of the requirements to receive any kind of scholarship because I do not have a Social Securty number.”

“Lila smiles, reaches into the cloth covering whatever goodies are in the basket, and pulls out a concha. The top of the pastry is a swirl of colors- deep purple, inky blue, pink, green, gold. It reminds me of the galaxy, and I stare for a moment, mesmerized, before I take it from her. My mouth begins to water. "This smells incredible," I say. "What do I owe you?" "It's on the house," she says, already turning away. "Enjoy." I want to argue, but the urge to bite into the pastry is nearly irresistible now. I've never had Mexican pastries before. But first... I pick up my phone from the bench and take a picture of the gorgeous creation. Then, putting it back down, I take a big bite and close my eyes. My mouth explodes with flavors and sensations- sweet, yeasty, warm. In another three bites, I've eaten the entire four-inch ball of dough and am licking my fingers.”

“Que el anarquismo es una maravillosa idea de libertad, no tener a nadie encima de uno. Ningún poder superior, ninguna cadena. No hay idea más maravillosa. No hay idea menos practicable. Pero hay que mantener la utopía de las ideas. Si no, nos convertimos en bestias. También la vida práctica es un hoyo negro que los lleva a la muerte. La revolución, la anarquía, la libertad son los premios del pensamiento. No tienen más que un trono, nuestra cabeza.”

“The Beetle’s body, whether it be a ’49 split or a ’73 Jeans Bug, or an ‘03 Mexican, was originally conceived in the mid 1930’s. This is evident in it’s body styling which aside from it’s rear engine layout and absence of front radiator (or radiator!) grille, is very similar to other cars of the same period. Believe it or not, in those days streamlining was a hot new concept, kind of like how wireless networking is today with computing. The only problem was, in the beginning they didn’t seem to realize that streamlining ought to be applied sideways as well as longitudinally!”

“Triqui and other Latin American native languages are commonly referred to as dialects. (...) Instead of understanding them as languages that were spoken in the area long before the Spanish conquest, calling them dialects implies that they developed as derivatives of the real language, Spanish. This misinterpretation supports the prevalent attitude that indigenous Mexicans are less important, even less Mexican , than mestizo Mexicans”

“Noemi wondered if High Place had robbed her of her illusions, or if they were meant to be shattered all along. Marriage could hardly be like the passionate romances one read about in books. It seemed to her, in fact, a rotten deal. Men would be solicitous and well behaved when they courted a woman, asking her out to parties and sending her flowers, but once they married. the flowers wilted. You didn't have married men posting love letters to their wives. That's why Noemí tended to cycle through admirers. She worried a man would be briefly impressed with her luster, only to lose interest later on. There was also the excitement of the chase, the delight that flew through her veins when she knew a suitor was bewitched with her. Besides, boys her age were dull, always talking about the parties they had been to the previous week or the one they were planning to go to the week after. Easy, shallow men. Yet the thought of anyone more substantial made her nervous, for she was trapped between competing de sires, a desire for a more meaningful connection and the desire to never change. She wished for eternal youth and endless merriment.”

“It was ironic, really, that the only reason I became eligible to adjust my status was because I married a U.S. citizen. I laugh when I think about the many times my mom told me, 'You have to be independent. You have to make your own money. Don't depend on a man!' I did. I made my own money. But I still needed a man to save me from my illegality.”

“We live in a country where there are more than 60 million Latinos, making up almost a fifth of the American population. But we aren't the ones narrating our own story; rather we became subjects at the mercy of someone else finding us worthy of taking up space in the world. Until our history, struggles, and unique experiences are unearthed, the whole country will suffer because the American story will remain incomplete. It's incredible what our people have survived in this country, and how little Americans of all races, ethnicities, and backgrounds know about it. When our rich past is kept from us, it leaves people to believe that we belong somewhere else—outside this country. Without an accurate telling of our history, we cannot fully address problems that are rooted in the past. When we are viewed as foreigners, our issues become someone else's problems—not America's problems.”

“The Reverent Theodore Parker, Unitarian minister in Boston, combined eloquent criticism of the war with contempt for the Mexican people, whom he called 'a wretched people; wretched in their origin, history, and character,' who must eventually give way as the Indians did. Yes, the United States should expand...by 'the steady advance of a superior race, with superior ideas and a better civilization...by being better than Mexico, wiser, humaner, more free and manly'. ...The racism for Parker was widespread. Congressmen Delano of Ohio...opposed the war because he was afraid of Americans mingling with an inferior people who 'embrace all shades of color....a sad compound of Spanish, English, Indian, and negro bloods...and resulting, it is said, in the production of a slothful, ignorant race of beings'.”

“I've learned that Mexicans, our Indigenous ancestors, have always had a footprint in this land. We have many examples to follow of people who resisted assimilation, who fought for equality. We must shine a light on those who came before us, those who showed us decades ago that we are enough. Through them, I have learned this is where I belong, not because white people accept me, but because the same roots that ground me to Mexico ground me here, too.”

“Reclaiming my identity has been a painful birthing process. Something beautiful has been born, but not without blood and tears. The Latino identity is complex...even the very words we use to describe our community cause controversy. How we are counted in official forms like the census have created unintended consequences, or maybe it's by design that we are treated as America's bastard child, as perpetual foreigners no matter how many generations ago we became American.”

“These nativists—these racists—imagine a U.S. utopia of white people that has never existed. We've been here. Mexicans, and more broadly Latinos, have have never invaded Texas. Our land was stolen, and now we're the ones who are viewed as thieves. White supremacy doesn't care if we are here legally, or if we were born here, or if our families have roots in America dating back centuries, perhaps even longer than theirs. The fear many white people have is not whether we will assimilate, but whether our Latino bodies, and those of our children, will roam this land.”

“Many of us understand that America was built on the brutality of slavery and the looting of Indigenous land. Fewer recognize the colonization of Mexico by the United States as a third pillar in the creation of present-day America. The first colonization of Mexico was of course by Spain. But the second colonization of my people came at the hands of the United States during the Mexican-American War. In school we learn of it as Manifest Destiny, as the God-given right of white people to steal native land. The result was not only the taking of land...but the reluctant acquisition of Mexicans. ...The annexation of Texas into the United States and a dispute over where the Texas border should be drawn gave President James Polk an excuse to loot more Mexican land...There were between 80,000 and 100,000 Mexicans living in the land stolen by the United States. Polk wanted the land, but not the Mexicans on it. They were never immigrants; they didn't come to the United States or cross the border; the border crossed them. After the war, the Mexico-U.S. border was carefully drawn to keep as many Mexicans out as possible, a purpose it still serves. But the border never stopped out roots from growing on both sides.”

“...Mexicans threw a wrench in the racial dynamics of America, and in turn, our place in the United States has been precarious ever since, because we became citizens at a time when only white people could become citizens, even though most of us were not white. ...The United States wasn't happy about giving citizenship to Mexicans. After all, Mexicans were viewed as racially inferior, primitive creatures who were ignorant and knew nothing of laws. New York Times articles from the 1870s and 1880s not how the 'Lazy Mexicans' were 'retarding progress.' We were described as 'the personification of tramphood' on the front page of the Times. Another racist piece stated, 'Greasers as citizens. What Sort of State New Mexico Would Make.' Our 'origin and character,' our 'hatred of Americans,' and our 'dense ignorance' made us 'totally unfit for American citizenship.' We were an undesirable compromise for manifesting a white destiny in the West.”

“Why don't you speak English? Why don't you speak Spanish? Being Latino in America means the answer to both of these questions holds us to an impossible standard to prove we're both sufficiently American and authentically Latino. I am tired of the interrogation, the unattainableness, the in-betweenness. I am enough to stand on both sides, fully and completely.”

“The fact remains, Esperanza, that you, for instance, have a better education than most people's children in this country. But no one is likely to recognize that or take the time to learn it. Americans see us as one big, brown group who are good for only manual labor. At this market, no one stares at us or treats us like outsiders or calls us 'dirty greasers.' My father says that Mr. Yakota is a very smart businessman. He is getting rich on other people's bad manners.”

“It's a mix of chilaquiles and cheesy grits--- something my grandmothers used to make, in their own ways. One was Black, from Georgia, and the other was Mexican, from Veracruz. I grew up eating both, and this is kinda like a blend of the two worlds. A little homage to both of them." I took a bite, and the flavors exploded--- creamy, sharp cheese with the slight crisp of tortillas, balanced with the rich softness of the eggs. The grits were smooth and buttery, while the spice from the salsa brought the dish to life. I laughed. "This does taste like one foot in the South and the other across the border.”