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…
Single-Never-Married
I didn’t know bad poetry was a side effect of a crappy love life. It’s a boring subject. I’m bored with it. I am sick of my own one-color whining and my same old story. Blah blah blah. I wish I could end my self-judgement. I wish I could stop seeing myself as a loser...
like putting on a wet bathing suit
So many dates, so many attempts. Like being lost at sea.It felt so good to come in, dry off, get warm, date just one person over and over again, finally catching my breath on solid ground.Another false start. Break time over.Lurch back into the surf.
Mothers who yield custody
Just tossing this out and seeing if I get any response:My sister struggles as the single mother of a nine-year-old special needs child who is autistic and has chronic emotional tantrums (including injuring my sister) every day, often more than once a day. Judy has...
