You can’t cure families: you can only prevent them.
I’m Regina Rodríguez-Martin and this is the blog of a middle-aged Mexican American woman. In 2004 the word was that blogs were over, but a friend had a blog and I wanted one, too. I started Chicana on the Edge on June 17, 2004 and have kept it going ever since (my friends’ blog ended years ago).
The “edge” refers to being in the margin of the margin of culture and society. For instance, as a Chicana I’m on the outside of mainstream American culture, but I’m on the margin of Mexican American culture as well.
Invoking Steve Martin: I was born a small white child. Actually, I was born in the 1960s to Mexican American parents who raised me in a very white part of Northern California. My parents were born in the U.S and my dad’s parents were born in the U.S. but his grandparents and my mother’s parents were from Mexico.
In the 1970s and 80s I grew up in a white city with white friends, went to white schools and dated white boys. I sound like a white woman when I talk. (As “Regina Rodriguez” I went to Las Lomas in Walnut Creek.)
Later I went to U.C. Berkeley and Cornell and got degrees in English literature. Cornell is where I first faced obvious racism, which made it the first place I really felt like a Mexican. I’ve become steadily more Mexican ever since.
At the age of 27 I moved to Chicago to seek my fortune (still seeking) and every year since I’ve become more aware of racism in all its degrees.
My favorite color is pink, I couldn’t live without peanut butter and my favorite season is winter. Chicago’s gray, protracted winters are a main reason I moved here in 1993 and I’ve always known it was the perfect decision for me. I don’t want to live anywhere else and I don’t want to die anywhere else.
Explore my blog…
Napoleon Dynamite
On Wednesday I rented the 2004 movie Napoleon Dynamite. (I like this website, too.) On Friday I watched it. On Saturday and Sunday I watched it again. I might watch it once more before I return it. I wish I had seen it in the theater because this movie TOTALLY...
It’s the 70’s in My Head
I decided to go further into that nostalgia experience that happens when a song takes me back. Here's the moment I referred to in my last post, “slo-mo”:I’m sitting in a northside café with a man who’s in love with me but with whom I’ve failed to fall in love. I’m...
Normal
Today I heard a song that reminded me of being 12 years old, when I believed my life would be fun and exciting when I got older. I strain to hear such songs, as if remembering and recapturing that 12-year-old sense of anticipation might somehow straighten out the past...
