Llegando al fín

Damn, I was typing up an entry and I deleted it. I'll retype it when I get back from the dr. My first pap-smear at the age of 24.


My pap has been smeared and I'm on oral contraceptives. The lady told me that someone should treat me to conmemorate this great event. My girlfriend is taking me to the movies, but we had already planned that prior to this.

Anyway, back to what I was originally going to write about:

Each morning, as I walk into the gym and the semi-new state of the art gym facility scent hits my nostrils, I think, in a couple months, I won't be able to come here anymore. Last semseter, in the midst of term papers and endless pages of prose, poetry, and studies, all I could think about was graduating. Oh how great it would be when I would no longer need to worry about midterms, papers or finals. Now, all I can think about is making it last just a little bit longer and enjoying my last semester. Although I plan to go to grad school, this may not happen for another year. In the meantime, I won't be able to spend hours on end in the library occasionally looking out the window to see rain attaching itself to the double panned windows. I won't be able to bitch about how the school is spending my money. I won't be able to read the paper and comment with classmates about the latest editorial. But most importantly, I won't be able to attend class.

I'm going to miss going into a classroom and listening to a professor probe us for comments. Yeah, some of them did suck and didn't offer me any real knowledge. But those few, that raised the bar and made me achieve another level of understanding, those are the ones that make it worth it. I've always said I wanted to be a student for life and this is exactly why. I need that contact to help provoke me, cause me to aim higher not because I'm dependent but because I know that I can talk about it with someone who may understand me. I'm not insulting anyone or saying that people are stupid, but the university has been the only place to afford me these kinds of coversations.

Dang, four more months. :(


Hablando con el primo

Last night, I was sitting on my bedroom floor putting together a nightstand for my roommate. She joked that before we part, she’s going to buy a chest of drawers and have me put it together because she’s incapable. She put one together a while back and it wobbles and the bottom of the drawers fall out…it’s a miracle that it’s actually standing.

Anyway, in the midst of hammering and screwing, the loud shrill of my cell phone overcame the George Strait tunes (what? just cuz I’m a chicana doesn’t mean I can’t like him) Pancha (my computer) was playing. I picked up the phone thinking it’d be Dan the Man because he had run away from my hammering about half an hour earlier, but no, it was a number from El Chuco. I thought, “Huh, pos who could it be?” So I hit the “ok” button and articulated my most cheerful hello.

“Esta mi prima Georgina?”

“No, no esta. Jejeje”

“Ahh, como estas prima?”

For the first couple of minutes, I knew it was one of my Tía Bucha’s kids, but I couldn’t figure out if it was Rick of Jaime. I only figured it out when he said he quit his job in Reno because he got a better one in Salinas. Then he told me about his new truck and I asked him if he’d installed the cooler yet.

When we got off the phone, I was giddy that he had called me but at the same time, I was sad because he’d go back to being all alone. When I was home this past Christmas, he spent a few nights at my mom’s because he’s separated from his wife and she won’t let him stay at their house. So when he comes to see his kids, he spends then night at my mom’s or at a friend’s. Anyway, the night before he left, he went over to my mom’s and we drank a case of beer and talked. We talked about his separation, his kids, he showed me a picture of his little boy whom I’ve never met, then we talked about his mom and growing up.

When we were kids, we all hung out together, Jaime, Rick (his brother), my brother Jorge, my sister Gabi, and me. Usually, I’d get left behind on the expeditions because I was a lot younger than all of them. Sometimes, Jaime would stay back and play with me. It usually involved breaking Ken’s head because Ken was a joto. He always laughs about the time I peed on my mom’s sandal because he was making me laugh so much. I always remember him teaching me to tie my shoes and the instant popularity I gained in middle school when people found out I was Dino’s cousin.

After he was sent to jail, we wrote to each other once. (Before I scare you off, my cousin isn’t a drug dealer or cold blooded murderer. He was just a kid kicking it with the wrong people.) When he got out, we didn’t see each other much. Then after his mom’s death, I saw him a little more. He’d come over with Celia, his girlfriend, and they’d spend the night and we’d go shopping the next day or sit around and watch TV making fun the dubbed voices on the cartoons on the Spanish speaking channels.
When he got married Celia, I made the chile de arbol, which made everyone except one guy sick. Then there was some time that we didn’t see each other again. One night, we went over to his house and Celia was taking the girls to her mom’s and she was having a girl’s night out and he was staying home. My mom suggested that I go do something with him and we both jumped on the idea. We went to a lot of bars looking for a place where we could watch the fight, but no one seemed to be showing it. We ended up at this place called “Smokey’s.” We got a pool table and he snuck me a tequila shot and we hung out almost until closing time. We made friends with the guy who was playing at the table next to us who was originally from L.A. but was in El Chuco for his chamba, just like my cousin is these days in Reno or Salinas.

Sometimes in the middle of driving home or working, I think about him. I wonder what he must feel being out there all alone. I know he’s making money and he likes his job, but I bet he misses his girls and Anthony. Then I realize that he’ll probably be doing that the rest of his life so he can provide for his kids just like his mom.


I hate titles

I’ve been extremely busy at Latino Publishing Inc. because I’ve been trying to clear off my damn desk. I want to get things pretty organized so that the person who moves in on my job when I graduate will find organized databases and neat files and all that good stuff. Oh yeah, and so that it’s nice for my supervisor too.

Anyway, for one of my classes this semester, I have to write a letter to the editor in regard to race and gender in current pop culture. I’ve been thinking about writing something about Latino influence in fashion trends. I looked up the Jesus is my Homeboy stuff, but that really pertains to the religious aspect and I’m not too thrilled by that. I sort of like how a lot of these rasquache companies like Naco Inc. are taking U.S. pop culture and running with it.

Anyway, the real issue of the day is that I submitted some stories for review for this online writing group I’m part of. I’ve gotten back two reviews and one of them was really rude. It included remarks like “Will someone put me out of my misery?” The thing that really bothers me about his comments is that he doesn’t seem like he even tried to understand what I trying to say. This story is a memoir piece sparked by a cleaning lady I saw at an AMC one day who reminded me of my mom. I empathized with the lady because I remember my mom cleaning and being tired and having to do it because she needed to provide for us. I know there’s a whole cultural difference because he lives in Europe, probably England, and he may not be exposed to this, but damn. This guy just joined the writing group so maybe he’s harsh with everyone. I still sent him an e-mail in regard to his comments; I think it turned out pretty good. He has not replied and I don’t think he will either. In any case, like Napoleon Dynamite would say, “Daaaaaaang!”



Hola/Hello. I suppose it's always a good idea to have a biography because then people can reference it if they happen to stumble upon your journal so that's why I'm writing one.

I had journal/blog/diary (whatever you want to call it) but I'm no longer going to be updating it. In the last year, my life has changed a lot. I got engaged, I traveled out of the country, I spent New Year's Eve with a Man, and I realized that I am a writer. Now, I feel that I'm at another stage of my life because near the end of March, my fiance is moving in with me, near the end of May, I will be graduating from college, near the end of the summer, I'll have to leave my current job because I am no longer a student, and in the fall, I'm getting married. For this and other reasons, I felt it would be good if I started from scratch.

I'm calling this blog Big Brown Girl because in essence, that's what I am. Although, I'm not very brown. In fact, when people see me, they think I'm white. I'm what you'd call an inside out Oreo, brown on the inside and white on the outside. All my life I've lived on the border of two cultures both literally and figuratively. I grew up in El Paso, Texas. I left in 2002 to resume my studies at the University of Houston and only then, was I able to learn the importance of my hometown and it's culture. I now enter this next stage of my life with a new eye glasses perscription.