Chicana on the Edge

Mentioning the unmentionable since 2004

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.

Subscribe


Archive

My blog focuses on

Explore my blog…

40th birthday – a year and a half away

I am the most beautiful, amazing sweater you ever saw and it's the only one left and it's perfect for you and it's in your size and it's on sale. You feel so lucky; it seems too good to be true. How is it possible that this beautiful sweater was overlooked by everyone...

read more

You see, there’s this guy…

The last time I let myself flutter: pregnant hope billowed out big as a sail, rocked playfully on the waves of possibility and flirting, swoopingly, swoopingly. But it ended with a SPLAT: glistening raw redness of a watermelon cruelly lurched from the back of a truck....

read more

The closest I get to a miracle

At my new restaurant job, I've been hampered by my lack of confidence as a server and my lack of experience. I'm hoping that as I get better at it, the money will flow, but for now I get lots and lots of two-person tables. The experienced people get the big parties,...

read more