Things My Mom Taught Me about Being Mexican

By Hector Jimenez

A volume of 100+ poems and anecdotes touching on the offbeat, funny and tragic. With stories ranging from anarchic uncles to the simplicity of a taco de crema.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hector Jimenez
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005541989

Hector Jimenez

Hector Jimenez writes and jogs in Long Beach, CA. His work explores the place where humor, surrealism and tragedy meet, and he can spin a yarn in various formats from screenplay to book to comic. All the while he has supported himself as a customer service agent for pugster.com, Kitchen cook in a hamburger joint (fired after 1 day), Army Artilleryman, substitute teacher for Lynwood Unified and Script Supervisor for various Lifetime and Hallmark films. He has lived in Los Angeles from birth, though he did live in Georgia and the Bay Area that one time.

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Table of Contents

Preface

Tomatillo

Blood In Blood out

Mexico

Tio

Café de la olla

Firework/Cuete

Spanish

Pogz / Tazos

Rooster

Scorpion / Alacran

Stand and Deliver

Nachos

Avocado / Aguacate

Taco de crema

CDMX

Café Tacuba

Goat/Chivo

Refried Beans/Frijoles Refritos

Piñata

Quebraditas

Vicente Fernandez

Accordion

Ensenada

Tio II (A different Tio)

Tlayuda

Weed/Mota

Mario Almada

Cheese/Queso

Knorr Suissa

Duvalin

Beans/Frijoles

Love and Rockets

Quesadilla

Bad words/Grocerias

Mazatlan

Pulque

Soccer/Futbol (The watching of)

Wedding/Boda

Jalostotitlan I

Scarab/Mayate

Burbujas

Oysters/Ostiones

Burrito

Tobacco

Torta

Cesina

Chiles Rellenos

The sign of the cross/Persinarse

Peanut/Cacahuate

Pozole

Lucha Libre

Taco

Mexicali

Guisado

Ñ

Xochitl

Mexican

Coconut/Coco

Bolillo

Don Ramon

Mango

Cholo

Lipovitan

Texas

Huntington Park

Serrano

Edward James Olmos

Bruja

Tostada

Chicken/Pollo

Cantinflas

Rice/Arroz

Saladitos

Quinceanera

Cousins/Primos-Primas

Jalapeno

Buey (Guey, way)

Huaraches

Titties/Tetas

La Virgen De Guadalupe

Sobador

Mariachi

Nescafe

Chia

Soccer/Futbol (The playing of)

Chipotle

Beef Stew/Caldo de res

Brujeria

Dragonball

Jalostotitlan II

Niño de la tierra

L.A. Street Dog

Parque Nacional Barranca del Capatitzio

Death

Lucas

San Marcos

Tunas

Concha

Paletero

Elote Man/Elotero

Chile

Godmother-father/ Niño-a

Los Mochis

Scarab/Mayate (II)

Mosquito Coils

Pepito

Supermarket/Supermercado

Resortes

Horses

Paranguacutirimicuaro

Jalostotitlan III

Pico de gallo

Cheech Marin

Vapo Rub

Tapatio

Tequila

Cilantro

Tortilla

Chubacabra

Chavo Del Ocho

Bolo

Nintendo

Pomegranate/Granada

Beer/Cerveza

Loteria

Ceviche

Desmadre

Atole

Street Food/Comida Callejera

Tomato/Jitomate

Dia de los muertos

Folklorico

Puerto Vallarta

Spanglish

Tijuana

Preface

It is difficult to be born outside of Mexico and call yourself Mexican.  For me, it always feels like an honor I don’t quite deserve.  This preface used to be 20+ pages of me trying to convince you (and myself) that I am indeed Mexican.  In the end, I took all that I wrote and boiled it down to a simple rule.

Like a nudist, don't measure how much or little Mexican you have, instead own what you've been given proudly.

Feeling insufficiently Mexican is shitty, and I know there are others out there going through the same thing.  Part of putting this together was hoping to encourage others to embrace their roots, regardless of their depth.

Tomatillo

Your name sounds like a hand-me-down.

"Remember that foo Tomato?

This is his little brother, Tomatillo."

Maaan.  I ain’t even a tomato.

Blood in/Blood out

I never really mixed with gang life, but I knew plenty gangsters growing up.  And every single one of them worshiped ‘Bound by honor’.  It was their bible.  Knowing every scene intimately, as though it were a home movie.

So how in this world of thugs and brawlers, does Miclo get a pass?  I’ve never heard anyone call bullshit on this white guy being part of the crew.  Never has a cholo said that was unrealistic.  There’s a white guy in American Me too.  Maybe the racial lines between gangs aren’t as rigid as we think.

There’s never a black guy with the cholo’s though.  Guess they don’t get a pass.

Mexico

Dad had bought a used camper, and we were spending the summer traveling through the country.

Above the driver seats there was a large bed; jutting precariously out beyond the windshield.  Sitting up there let me take in the world from up high.   It was a real pleasure to watch the countryside flash by, lying on your stomach in comfortable boredom. 

One day I was roused from sleeping.  Traffic had stopped and there was some commotion below.  I asked why we had stopped and mom yelled for me not to look out the window.

I rushed to the window.

We had been driving on a two lane highway.  One of those where the only way to pass slow cars is to brave oncoming traffic.  Slowly we moved forward and came alongside a light blue convertible with the top down.

The driver had completely gone through the steering wheel, and pieces of it were sticking out behind him.  The scene was so grotesque it seemed surreal, like someone had smashed a cherry pie on top of the accident itself.  The passenger was wearing her seatbelt, so she sat upright, her eyes open but lifeless.

This image seared itself into my young mind as the image of Mexico.  Gruesome violent death.  Sometimes it still feels that way.  Like the land is always daring me to go out like that.

Tio

I must be about five and we’re about to play horse.  This is not some fancy trotting around the living room.  He warns me once to hang on, I grab hold as best I can and then he shows me what riding a wild horse is like.