A lot of people said to me, 'Enough with the guest vocalists for a while. We want to hear the Mexican play the guitar!'
Latin food suffers like Chinese. You can do marginal Chinese and be successful. You can do crappy Mexican and be packed.
Why doesn't pope say to every Mexican living in America, "Go back to Mexico! That's your home! Socialism is preferable." Why does he want them to stay? Because they are going to convert this place, folks. That's what this is all about.
I am always an optimist. The pessimists are the liars who refuse to admit what is happening. And I'll give you three things we could do this instant to help Mexico: legalize drugs, renegotiate NAFTA so that it pays a living wage, protects unions and protects the environment and stop Plan Merida which gives $500 million a year to the Mexican army, the largest single criminal organization in Mexico.
Donald Trump creates scapegoats in Muslims and Mexican immigrants. He calls for the use of torture. He calls for killing the innocent children and family members of terrorists. He cheers assaults on protesters. He applauds the prospect of twisting the Constitution to limit First Amendment freedom of the press. This is the very brand of anger that has led other nations into the abyss.
A white leftist Mexican activist isn't the same in the media as the son of a farmer in Guerrero, they aren't worth the same. In the same imaginary of the Latin American Left exists a racism, a racism that corresponds to processes of colonialism internal to almost all countries in Latin America.
If drugs were legalized in the US, the Mexican economy would collapse since the earnings from drugs bring in more hard currency than its largest licit source, oil sales. Mexico is a corrupt state that has now become dependent on the earnings on an illegal product. But inevitably, the product will become legal and then Mexico will retain its corruption but must face the needs of its citizens now employed by the drug industry who have become steeped in violence and conditioned to higher incomes.
I've never met a bread basket that I didn't love. At the same time, it can make me tired. If I have too much wine, it's too much sugar. If I overindulge on tortilla chips in a Mexican restaurant, I can really feel it. I think sometimes just watching it and not doing things in excess can really help with whether you feel good or not.
The whole guilt thing of not feeling Mexican enough was a big deal, too. On the one hand, you have your grandmother who is anointing you as a chosen one because you are light, but then you feel like you're less because you are lighter than your cousins, who are more down on the streets. You know? So that confusion was all I wrote about.
You can't get decent Mexican food in DC.
Maybe she'd been drinking too much of the super-sweet Mexican Coca-Cola they had down here. Or maybe she was just tired, alone, and far from home. Because somewhere in the brittle, concrete center of Azrael's dark heart, something was melting.
I want to live life on my own terms. But I'm Mexican, so mi familia is always there to guide me in everything I do, whether I want them to or not. Well, "guide" is too weak a word. "Dictate" is more like it.
And, of course, millions of us cross the border to work in US homes and gardens and factories and carpentry shops and restaurants, and if you go to a restaurant pretty much anywhere in the United States, the chances are that the dishes will be washed by a Mexican.
When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.
The Tarahumara would party like this all night, then rouse themselves the next morning to face off in a running race that could last not two miles, not two hours, but two full days. According to the Mexican historian Francisco Almada, a Tarahumara champion once ran 435 miles, the equivalent of setting out for a jog in New York City and not stopping till you were closing in on Detroit.
I took three steps back; he nudged the door closed with his foot. “You like Mexican?” he asked. “I—” I’d like to know what you’re doing inside my house! “Tacos?” “Tacos?” I echoed. This seemed to amuse him. “Tomatoes, lettuce, cheese.” “I know what a taco is!
And you're not the kind of girl I want." Surely he couldn't mean the fact that I was Mexican. From what I knew of Hardy, there wasn't a bit of prejudice in him. He never used racist words, never looked down on someone for things they couldn't help. "What kind do you want?" I asked with difficulty. "Someone I can leave without looking back.
Let me tell you, Alex. He's a crook. He's based here in Miami. He's a nasty piece of work." "He's mexican" Troy added.
Certainly as actors, and maybe as directors, you've got to hang on to something childlike. You've got to know what play is. I haven't worked with Mike Leigh, but I know him very well and there's something open in his eyes about what's in front of him. And the same is true of Alfonso in a Mexican, mad way. There's an enthusiastic response to something. Neil Jordan, the same, when he gets excited . You just want to know there's a human being in there.
I thought of telling him that if it wasn't for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a bit of fun, there would've been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive.
A Mexican guy named Sam pushes Gary Frankel next to Isabel. "This guy can break your arm with one snap, asshole. Get out of my sight before I sic him on you," Sam says. Gary, who's wearing a coral shirt and white pants, growls to look tough. It doesn't work.
Maybe love is thinking that every time your partner does or says something mundane that you want to start a Mexican wave from here to Uzbekistan in utter delight.
In Bakersfield, California, a Mexican strawberry picker with an income of $14,000 and no English was lent every penny he needed to buy a house for $724,000.
Yes, Horus said. I remember this place. It’s El Paso, I told him. Unless you went out for Mexican Food, you’ve never been here.
Tofu tacos are not Mexican. I think putting tofu on anything and calling it Mexican is an insult to my people.
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