My mother Ines had a great sense of humor — although we didn’t laugh much when she threatened to use La Correa, which she conveniently had hanging right under the kitchen sink.

And we spent a lot of time in the kitchen because cooking was her passion. Or rather, cooking for her children was her passion.

I used to think she was mean because she would force us to eat breakfast before school. Imagine that. From my bed, I’d hear her cracking soft-boiled eggs, and I’d start yelling that I didn’t want to eat them.

But of course I did. I had no choice.

And she wouldn’t let me get up from the table until I finished my meal and showed her my empty plate. Sometimes I’d be the last one hanging out in the kitchen staring at the food congealing on my plate.

My mother could whip up a meal in just seconds no matter what time of the day or night it was. As grown-ups, before heading over to her place, we could call in an order and she’d have it ready for us.

If we needed some comfort food on those days when the world seemed heavy on our shoulders, there would be una sopita de pollo simmering on the stove.

And even though I’ve leaned vegetarian since my high school days, she would insist on cooking up some chuletas or bistec encebollado. When I would remind her for the millionth time that I rather not eat meat, she’d look up at me (she was a tiny thing) with a hurt look.

And I would eat. That Inesita was a temptress. Oh yes she was.

Today, on Mother’s Day, three generations of my family will get together at a Spanish restaurant and we’ll eat a lot and have some drinks.

And we’ll toast the mother of nine who signed her cards “Ines La Cocinera.”

Like I said, my mother had a great sense of humor. I know she’s laughing with me as I watch this silly video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s3AKTYqqsTI

Just like Christmas (when we are nice to everyone) this is the one day when we are extra nice to women because they are mothers. I find it repulsive to be reminded to be thankful to my mother on a specific day. So, today is Mother’s Day, Happy Mother’s Day Mom! Not because I want to tell you I’m grateful for waddling around for nine months with a big belly eating up everything in God’s creation, but because Hallmark, Kay Jewelers, and 1-800 Flowers.com have been telling me for over two weeks that it’s Mother’s Day. I’m not saying that we don’t need to celebrate our mothers (just to clarify), but why on the second Sunday of May? And I’m not even mad that sometimes that Sunday coincides with my birthday. Mom, I love you (despite being coo-coo) yesterday, today, tomorrow and on Mother’s Day, and hey, guess what mom? I’ll even love you when it’s not Mother’s Day.

But in all honesty, I want to thank the other mothers in my life as well. Mom “Sue”, who gave me a place to stay and cultivated me and taught me about life and protected me like her own child when I was 16. I want to thank my aunts who always loved me with unconditional love and let them know I missed that love once I came to the United States. My Grandma who, even in her old school way of whooping A$%, taught me the alphabet and how to read in Spanish. To my cousins who would took care of me when I was younger and showed me so much love, Happy Mother’s Day to you too. I can’t name you all because I have another section to write about, but know that you are all very dear to my heart; although you guys sided with my mom when I was younger and now you realize that I was right, I forgive you for that. To Mrs. T, thank you for taking me in as a son as well. If it weren’t for the warmth and gentle love you provided for me while I was in college, I would not have known what a functional family and mother is like. To Cassie, if it weren’t for your support and going to bat for me, I wouldn’t have graduated college, Thank you! So, to mothers all over the world, enjoy this day and every day, because everyday should be a day to give thanks for the wonderful mothers we have, some crazier than others, but they’re our mothers, and we love you.

Now, to the underappreciated people in this world whom without we would have no book smarts at all. May 6th was National Teachers Day, I don’t know how many knew this, but it was. I’m sure everyone knew it was CINCO DE MAYO on Monday and restaurants around the country with a Mexican “flare” had specials on beer, margaritas, and Mexican food. The important day, though, was Tuesday the 6th. I speak often with a very good friend who is a teacher and her complaint is that teachers don’t get enough respect; enough to say that she would discourage her daughter to not pursue a career in teaching if she was interested in it. I was in shock, but understood where she was coming from. Educational funding usually gets cut first in any fiscally-failing government. Education, as decrepit as it is in the United States, still gets weaker due to funding woes and misappropriation of funds in districts. Well, example A is New Jersey, where $8 billion worth of construction financing for schools throughout the state was misused for salaries and luxurious offices. Not only that, but the urban districts were left with nothing accomplished except bungalows with trailers where kids are still trapped in less than adequate learning facilities. This is not fiction, it’s a fact. So, teachers have the dawning task to educate children in overcrowded classrooms, with outdated books, low maintenance buildings (which probably have lead-based paint), and no staff support. Teachers don’t get enough credit, and some, none at all. But a teacher is important to our society and they need to be revered as such. They educate us since the first day of Kindergarten and they matriculate us into colleges and universities, and we can’t even say thank you!

I want to say thank you, to Mrs. Burton (Sutter Jr.), thank you for believing in me and always being a person who would motivate me when I was low. Mrs. Kay, my A.E. English teacher, thank you for pushing me to be the best writer I could be. Mr. Duran, the first Hispanic teacher I had in all of my Elementary, Middle School and High School career, thank you for surviving WWII, the Korean War, and the Civil Rights movement for us. And thank you for teaching with passion and for pushing us, the Latinos in the class, to be better than we thought we were. Thank you Dr. Turner, for being my Argument and Debate professor and teaching me how to use language and evidence to be prepared for their point of view, mines and the one we haven’t thought of. If we can celebrate Cinco De Mayo, than we can celebrate National Teachers Day. Thank you teachers and professors for being a part of the Village that helped create an intelligent, charming human being (me). My good looks I have to attribute to my family genes, so thanks mom for that!

My Most Valuable Players (MVPs) in life are my family members, teachers and friends. My friends, although supportive, can be very argumentative. It’s in their nature. Particularly my brothers from a different mother like to pick arguments with me. I try to be civil, but no, they push the buttons until I finally explode (I don’t like to argue, I don’t even like to pose questionable topics because I’m afraid it will lead to mental sparring). Afterwards, they stare at me and say, “Hey, it’s not that serious.” Well it is.

About three weeks ago, my Hermano Antonio “Es Guapo” said that Chris Paul (CP3)of the New Orleans Hornets should win MVP honors, considering that he as a point guard has more duties and is responsible for the pace and overall success of his mediocre team, rather than the great Lakers team in Los Angeles, California. I grew up in Los Angeles, so therefore grew up as a Lakers fan and still am. I love the Lakers and, although I’ve had my problems with Kobe, I root for him. And so I chose to humor my friend by arguing on behalf of Kobe. I personally think that although Kobe Bryant is an excellent basketball player and an assassin on the basketball court, he didn’t deserve to win the MVP award. I agree with “Es Guapo” on the point that CP3 has less capable players around him. I also agree that he does more than Kobe does for his team. CP3 can not only score, but also is a shooter with three point range, who can create his own shot and create shots for others. Now, this is expected from a point guard, but to score in the mid-20’s and dish out 12 assists (assist- a pass that leads to a basket), average about 3 steals a game and 5 rebounds; that’s impressive. Kobe has a good, solid team around him, and basically has had a good balanced team around him for several years. The only new component to the team was Paul Gasol who is a 7-footer with incredible athletic ability. CP3 has teammates that have failed miserably on other teams or have not lived up to their potential. Meanwhile, not only does CP3 navigate his team to second place in the NBA’s toughest conference (West), but also is doing it with less capable athletes who he is making better. Chris Paul is deserving of the award because he helped revive not just a team, but is also helping to revive the city in New Orleans. Kobe, on the other hand, has won the MVP because it was his “time,” so now we can move on and actually give awards to people who deserve it. So, what if CP3 gets injured next year and doesn’t play like the CP3 of this year in upcoming years? Is someone going to be sacrificed for him?

All I can say is that thank God, for mothers and teachers, for preparing us for the meaningful arguments that contribute to our personality. For if it weren’t for the tools these individuals bestowed upon me, I would have never been able to discuss Kobe vs. Paul and see both sides of the argument!

In the midst of the Democratic Primary race, the issues surrounding immigration, the increasingly high cost of food, our own challenges with working, living and raising families, I’d like us to pause for a moment and remember a woman I came to know only as a result of her brutal death, Diana Valencia.

Diana Valencia, mother of three, of Clifton NJ, was murdered a few weeks ago. As I read the Herald News article I could not help but think how this woman in another situation would have been applauded for her dedication to her children and her entrepreneurial efforts. She recently started her own business in Passaic, no doubt to provide a better future for her children. “She gave us everything we needed,” her teenage son said.

My heart hurts for her children. I cannot imagine what this Sunday will be like for them. But if we as the Latino community in New Jersey remember them, say a prayer for them, light a candle, whatever we can do that is sacred, perhaps it would help. Perhaps this is something we as a community can do for Diana Valencia, a gift for her, to remember her children on what will probably be one of the most difficult days of their young lives.

On Tuesday, June 3rd, New Jersey voters will go to the polls and vote for individuals to represent their party in the general election. This too is the case for the Democratic nomination for U.S. Senate representing the State of New Jersey. Over the past several years, the Latino vote has become an increasingly significant force in determining the outcomes of primary and general election races.

The political might of the Latino community when put into practice has resulted in increased attention to issues affecting our community. It is therefore our responsibility to continue to do everything we can to engage the process and add our community’s voice in the mix. We do so for the benefit of our community, our kids and all residents of our great state and nation.

For this blog entry, we welcome the three candidates for the Democratic nomination. Through a Q & A, we engage each candidate and have them address our community directly. The format includes five questions I posed to each candidate, then an opportunity to ask and answer a question from an opponent. (NOTE: LatinosNJ will be offering the same opportunity to the Republican Primary candidates.)

Now the power is in your hands. As the motto of the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project goes “Su Voto Es Su Voz” (Your Vote is Your Voice). Make your voice be heard. Juntos hicimos y continuaremos haciendo historia.

Siempre Adelante!!
Roberto

CLICK HERE TO VIEW THE CANDIDATES ANSWERS

There was a nice breeze blowing through the west and making its way southeast at the circle around 10:45 pm on Monday, April 20th, 2008 at Rutgers University’s Livingston campus. The moon, although not completely full, was illuminating the sky brightly. At least a hundred people were in attendance at the circle. Many colors were represented, the brown and white, the baby blue and white, the gold and brown, the burgundy and grey, the red gold and white, blue and white and so many other colors that Rutgers’ organizations represent that I would literally be here for 10 minutes recognizing them all. But the buzz was about a little person with a great smile that lights up a room anywhere she goes. Her aura brings out the best in people and her heart makes people feel like they are important.

Surrounded by young college women wearing red and black jackets she marched confident and strong. She didn’t hesitate and, although I know she was excited and ready to get it over with and return to civilization, she held her demeanor strong. As she was given instructions on what to do, I can only picture the history that was about to occur, and the history that this very campus (Livingston) had witnessed throughout the years beginning with its inception.

At Rutgers University (New Jersey’s State College) in the mid-1970’s, a campus was created in the height of the “Latino” student movement in America. As I’ve been told many times, Latinos were struggling to enter colleges across the country. Livingston College was created to prove that minorities were not capable of appreciating and attaining a degree. Out of this, leaders emerged. Many of whom are now in civic service, consultants for governors, business owners, professors, lawyers, executive directors of non-profits and the list goes on and on. These leaders were college students who wouldn’t be denied their place in history. They were able to create support groups where students could study together, congregate and recruit more people of color to attend the “pilot program” on Livingston campus. Sit-ins were organized to keep the library open during finals. Protests were held at basketball games. Buses full of minority students from the surrounding urban areas were brought to the campus by college students of color to increase enrollment. Committees were formed for African-American and Latin-American courses and for minors and majors to be created. Also, there were petitions and demands that the school integrate more Latino and African-American professors and staff.

The Livingston experiment failed! Latinos and African-Americans were successful in graduating. From this, campus organizations were founded to uplift the Latino community, both on and off college grounds.

On many occasions on different blogs that I write or have written, I’ve been very critical of Latino and African-American fraternities and sororities. When I look back at the history of the organizations and why they were created, I’m sure the founding fathers/mothers had a vision as to how in the time of need these organizations would be the shining light of the minority community’s struggle. We have forgotten what struggle is because we have everything at our disposal now. All organizations pledge themselves to be uplifting and educating, and creating Latino/African-American unity. As I am now a professional I see that fraternities and sororities have a place in society, the valuable lessons learned while going through a process, the valuable networking possibilities, the community service projects that are “supposed” to help students connect with their community and the community connect with the students etc. etc. But I have also been witness of the misuse of the power these organizations give an individual.

These organizations were created to provide history to our communities and a network to colleges and universities. These organizations were in charge of creating a link between our Barrios/Hoods to higher learning. Now they are just social outlets that create competition in recruiting who is the best, first, harder to get into, can stroll (party walk) the best, or carries more street cred on campus.

It is of great importance to remember where we come from and why we come from there. History teaches us that it is bound to happen over and over again if we are not astute as to recognize it. I expect a lot from college students. Not because I was a person of action in college like my best friends, but because college students are the voice of reason at times of crisis. We have issues in our communities that our college students should be stepping forward and making themselves heard in. If anything, they should be trying their best to make sure that those who live in our neighborhoods can have the same experience they are having in college. But they don’t, they are more concerned with the next party, the next meet-the-Greeks, or the next step show, or programs on their own campuses that cater to the same crowds. I think our parents, grand-parents and children could benefit from community service events twice a month in our neighborhoods, where kids can see that people like “me” can go to college. Where people can see that “En La Union Esta La Fuerza,” Simon Bolivar, and can also witness “La Unidad Latina” in action. But who will be surmised to understand that “Latinos Siempre Unidos” is a concept of power? And of course we have to understand that “Culture for Service and Service for Humanity” is a vision and action and not just words. And “Achievement in Every Field of Human Endeavor” is feasible because “Friendship is Essential to the Soul.” These are all mottos that mean something special when the words are meshed together; let’s give back to our communities as a whole. Let’s begin to educate our young children about our founder’s courage, and inner strength, and wisdom of vision! Let’s show the world, academic, social and other wise that we are not dormant and irresponsible with the power bestowed upon us.

So, when 11 o’clock (in the p.m.) was showing on the hands of my watch on April 20th, and I knew that in less than 12 hours I would have to be in a meeting in Camden, NJ, I was proud! I was proud because even though I was about to lose some valuable sleep, my cousin whom I played games with when she was a child, has become a woman with strong values. I remember playing a game called “doggie pile” when she and her brother would jump on me and scream “doggie pile!”; or when she as a 10-year-old taught me how to dance Bachata at my graduation bbq. Wow how time passes us by! I even remember her not speaking to me for more than a year because I use to call her “Baby Bubbles” as she despised that nickname.

But now as her “Probate” was in midstride and she was holding her own and representing her new organization with the upmost light, she was also representing our family with pride! Her father and I standing side by side as she went to the greeting rituals, observing every detail as my heart pumped with happiness and pride to see her accomplish this goal on her own. She did it! I know she wanted to smile but couldn’t, I know she wanted to cry and eventually she did. I knew that she was happy and you could see it.

Her name to us is Reyna, but to her sisterhood is “SOLEstice” and her line’s name “Desolate Fortitude” of Chi Upsilon Sigma, Latin Sorority Inc., Alpha Chapter. Her genius was shown (and of course we know she’s a genius because we’re related) and it was undeniably accepted by more than a hundred people waiting in the beautiful night. Now her job is to educate and to promote “Corazones Unidos Siempre” into our world and how those words don’t just signify an organization but our community and what it should be. “With great power comes great responsibility” and it’s only fitting that she is on a campus that has so much powerful history about what was accomplished in the yesterdays of our student culture and movement.

I told her that she is a Citlalin (you know what that means and it’s only meant for you) in the making and that she has a great future ahead of her, and that this is not the first, nor the last accomplishment that we as a family are so much very proud of. Her perseverance to go to college was one, to attain a G.P.A above 3.0 in her first semester is another, and now this, what a moment! Prima, you are special to all of us and we love you and I know that you will have a great academic and college career. Keep your head up and like an Anancy, find a way to succeed in every aspect of life. Give back to our community (Latino) and I’ll do my best to help you, I’m only a text away. And Uno, remember life, “It’s hard, it gets harder, then it’s over” so work hard and play hard!

There has been a lot of news in the last few weeks about rising prices for food at our grocery stores and warehouse clubs. One commodity that has seen a huge price increase has been the cost for rice. The cost of rice has doubled in the last year and there are concerns that it could rise even further over the next couple of months.

Ironically, the rise in cost for rice has prompted customers to buy even more rice in big bulks fearing that prices will continue to rise. In an unusual move, warehouse clubs Sam’s Club and Costco announced that they will limit the amount of rice that their customers can buy due to the low supply and the high demand for bulk-level rice.

This is something that needs attention primarily in the Latino, Asian, and immigrant communities. According to the California Rice Exchange, the average American eats about 20 pounds of rice per year but the average Asian eats about 150 pounds of rice per year. While the California Rice Exchange used Asians in their data, traditional Latino and Caribbean families also has a rice-heavy diet and could be comparable to the Asian diet when it comes to rice consumption.

The shortage of rice should be of particular concern for our community and may need attention from our elected officials. Latinos and Asians are being most impacted by the rise in prices for rice and the supply shortage for the 20- to 25-pound bags of rice that many Latino families buy for use in their everyday meals. This is most concerning for Latinos on fixed income such as senior citizens, whose cost-of-living adjustments may not reflect the rising cost of food, in particular rice.

Talking about rice shortages may not be the most glamorous topic among political circles, but if you talk to any Latino family that puts rice on their table every day, this is increasingly a serious issue. I think this challenge must be monitored very closely especially since there appears to be a disconnect between what is happening with rice supplies at the grocery stores, warehouse clubs, and bodegas versus what is being said in the media the by the USA Rice Federation when they’re claiming that there is no rice shortage in the U.S. today.

So I read the news about New Jersey Homeboy Bruce Springsteen endorsing Senator Obama. Yawn.

Then I saw that Willie Colon endorsed Hillary Clinton. Aha! Now that struck a chord!

Let me just say right off the bat that I certainly don’t believe Latinos will be deciding who should occupy La Casa Blanca based on what entertainer is blasting a trombone or screaming a song at some dopey campaign rally.

But let me be quite frank here. No disrespect to the guy but I’ve heard enough Springsteen music at New Jersey political events to last me a lifetime. And, trust me, I’ve been to a lot of them.

New Jersey politicians and political wannabes just adore “The Boss.” Perhaps it’s a genetic thing or maybe they just think it’s mandatory that they love the guy whose albums include “Born to Run” and “Born in the U.S.A.”

Now I will admit that there’s a Springsteen tune or two that remind me of some fun times in my younger days when I joined my colleagues at the local bars after we filed our stories. After a few drinks, just about any song sounded good in the background as we trashed our editors.

But that so pales in comparison to my Willie Colon memories that go back to the days starting in college when I would drive into Manhattan with my friends Evelyn and Effie to go hear Willie and Hector and Tito and Celia. We’d go to places like El Corso where we’d dance away the night in our very high heels and then later hobble back to our car.

Quick story: One night, some guy brought Willie and Hector to our table. Not sure if they came to flirt with us or what. But I remember our reaction oh so very vividly: We froze. We didn’t know what to say. Oh my God! Hector and Willie want to talk to us and we have nothing to say.

Finally I was able to look up at them and blurt out: “I have your albums.”

Well, I guess they realized things were going absolutely nowhere with us, and they quickly took their leave and got back on the stage. And I know we giggled after they left us because that’s what young girls do.

I recently got together with Effie and her husband and he listened as she and I recalled the night that Hector and Willie came to our table. And as we sat in a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan, we giggled once again.

If you want to take a stroll down memory lane and hear and see Willie and Hector work their magic, check this out – and enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UL9bW6YRoEg&feature=related

The following recipe is one that Frida Kahlo got from her mother’s cooking journal. I would like to thank Maggie Van Ostrand for allowing me to use this recipe from her article on Frida Kahlo, The Five Senses of Frida. The original recipe appeared in Frida’s Fiestas: Recipes and Reminiscences of Life With Frida Kahlo by Guadalupe Rivera Marin.

I have been to Mexico numerous times and love the regional variety of food. Thousands of dishes from moles to sopa de lima; in fact, one could probably have a different dish every day and never repeat the same meal. In honor of Frida Kahlo’s show at the Philadelphia Museum here is one of her favorite dishes. Like her, just a little spicy.

CHILES STUFFED WITH PICADILLO

* 16 poblano chiles, roasted, peeled, seeded, and deveined

* Flour

* 5 eggs, separated

* Corn oil or lard

* Tomato Broth

Stuff the chiles with the picadillo, then dust them with flour. Beat the egg whites until stuff. Beat the yolks lightly with a pinch of salt and gently fold together with the whites to make a batter. Dip the chiles into the batter and fry in hot oil until golden. Drain on brown paper. To serve, place the chiles in the tomato broth.

PICADILLO

* 3 pounds/1,500g ground pork

* 1 large onion, halved

* 3 garlic cloves, chopped

* Salt and pepper

* 6 tablespoons lard

* 1 small onion, finely chopped

* 1 pound/400g tomatoes, chopped

* 1 cup/75g shredded cabbage

* three quarters cup/100g blanched almonds, chopped

* half cup/60g raisins

Cook the pork with the onion halves, garlic, and salt and pepper to taste for about 20 minutes. Drain the liquid and discard onion. Heat the lard in another pan and sauté the chopped onion, carrots, and zucchini until the onion is translucent. Add the tomato, cabbage, almonds, raisins, pork and salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for about 20 minutes, or until the mixture has darkened and the tomato is cooked through.

The influx of people from Mexico to New Jersey means that all these ingredients are readily available in most towns with a Latino presence. Don’t be scared to make these as they are pretty simple to put together and if it’s good enough for Frida, it’s good enough for you!

My wife and I have been waiting such a long time for a Frida Kahlo exhibit to come to a local museum. This year we got our wish. The ads called to me like a siren’s song. They were well done in dramatic red for effect and the name Frida in yellow. I swear I heard a Mexican corrido! The whole band swooped in and played a special song dedicated to Frida. It went something like this:

Querida Frida te quiero admirar pero mi corazón se rompe
porque Diego te hizo mal.

El que te quiere te quiere ahogar. Con sus disimulos y pinches mujerzuelas te quiere matar.

Pinta Frida, pinta, no escondas tu dolor.

Explícame en colores tus disgustos y rencor.

Pinta Frida pinta, enséñame tu amor.

Amarás con tu roja cinta, tu negro pelo y esconde el alcohol.

Frida, Frida linda dale como puedas.

En tu silla o en tu cama, mientras Diego te la pega con tu propia hermana.

Frida, Frida hermosa no mires para atrás.

Frida, Frida hermosa quítate el puñal úsalo como brocha para tus amarguras derramar.

Anyway I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah. Finally, a Frida exhibit in the tri-state area all for me! I mean for me to take my family and Carmen a close friend. So I go online to the Philadelphia Museum’s website and order my tickets. Not cheap. For my daughter, wife, friend and it was over $85; add parking, gas, lunch, tolls and a must stop at the original’s Pats Cheese Steaks and there goes my paycheck. But that does not matter. We love Frida! More importantly, we wanted to expose our daughter Maya (named after the Mayan Indians of Mexico) to Frida’s artwork. Maya who is only eleven loves art, museums, music and life. Sometimes, I think she is my conscious. You know like on television, the devil on one side and angel on the other. Maya is definitely an angel. Papi, you can’t leave the water running while you brush! Papi, if we don’t recycle we kill the Earth. Papi, don’t use bad language! Anyway, I can’t take a long shower, toss my cigar wrapper on the floor or curse Newark-style anymore. Got to love your conscious.

We arrive at the museum at our scheduled time of 2:30 pm and, unlike their website claim, there is no available handicapped parking. The one perk of being paralyzed suddenly and unexpectedly ripped from under me. My God, why? Why is every space taken? Did I not recycle? Did I not take short showers? It took us 30 minutes to find a free space, which the kind security guard carved out of a loading zone.

Forty-two pieces of Frida’s works all in one place — close to a quarter of her 200 total portraits. There are portraits such as the Henry Ford Hospital (1932), The Broken Column (1944), Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird (1940) — all here. The exhibit also featured photos and personal effects of Frida and Diego Rivera, her husband and famous muralist. This exhibition marks the hundredth year of Frida’s birthday, which was 1907, although you may hear conflicting stories about her actual birthday since Frida would often state that she was born in 1910, the year of the Mexican Revolution. Frida and Diego were at one time or another members of the Communist Party and both believed strongly in workers’ rights and the right to unionize. Frida was a person who believed in the human rights of everyone and often identified herself with the working class. Her Tijuana dresses and servant outfits marked many of her paintings and photographs. She was never ashamed of wearing clothing that reflected her culture. In fact, she embraced it. At the age of six, Frida was stricken with polio, which caused her to have a limp. However, this is not the event that marked the duration of her life struggles. In 1925, a bus she was riding collided with a tramcar and her leg and pelvis were severely injured. This incident marred the rest of her life and is evident in many of her paintings including The Broken Column. She had over 30 operations many hospitalizations years of bed rest. She suffered constant pain, spent many months in the full-body cast and sometimes used a wheelchair.

Diego Rivera, the love of her life, also caused Frida anguish and desperation. His many affairs were indeed a source of anger for Frida especially the one which involved her sister Christina. Frida, of course, learned that the best way to get even was to have affairs of her own, some which included women. Many of the paintings at the Philadelphia Museum are samples of her struggles with love, life, and a lifelong disabling condition. They exhibit her appreciation for Mexican culture and her love of life notwithstanding her many challenges.

We picked up our tickets at the window and rushed off to the exhibit only to be confronted with a line 200-people-long. Luckily we were escorted to the front, as if Frida was saying step this way. We all received headsets with built-in voice tours. Basically, one pushes a number in the recorder that corresponds to a work of art and you hear a brief explanation of it in your headsets. I walked around slowly taking in all that Frida had to offer. I looked intently into her eyes and she stared back. She seemed angry and confused. As if asking, where am I? I took my eyes off of her and I looked around and it hit me. There was something missing in this great exhibit. What you ask? Latinos!

There were no Latinos to be seen for miles. One of the security guards kinda looked Latino but I wasn’t sure. Regardless he was paid to be there. Frida the socialist would not have been happy. She would not have been happy to see that her life and her work are now segregated and her own people are not there to see it. Her work had become a commercial success. Diego would be so proud. However, the line of people waiting to see her pain on canvas led everyone to a huge gift shop immediately outside her exhibit area; she was all the rage. It was truly sad for me who had waited so long to realize that many Latinos cannot afford the ticket price or could take a day off of work to come see Frida’s exhibit. What happened? Where are all the Latino children who are looking for inspiration and a role model? If they came they would see a person who struggled to never gave up. A woman who was one of the first to go to a university made up of men. Someone who learned from pain that life is worth living even when you think there’s nothing worth living for. Where were the Latinos from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut and, most importantly, Pennsylvania? I think Frida would be highly disappointed that her works have become a way for free institutions such as museums to make a buck. I understand that many of these pieces come from various other institutions and private collections. However, I cannot get past the fact that there are no Latinos there. Maybe that is too broad of a statement but it appeared to be the reality when I was there.

In all fairness, we must all look in the mirror as it relates to appreciating the culture and historical treasures which we have been left. It is easy to blame the Philadelphia Museum and other institutions of “historical learning” — they are an easy target especially if they did not perform due diligence in reaching out to the Latino community. However, the Latino community in general and more specifically parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents are responsible when Latino children are not present at these events. If the price of the ticket is too much money then use other venues to get the same point across.

What is that point? That Latinos as a people have made great contributions to our culture and others and our children should know what those contributions are. If you’re in Puerto Rico, then go to the Taino ceremonial parks. If you’re in Mexico, then visit the many pyramids that are there. Further south in Central and South America, more culture abounds with Mayan, Olmec and Aztec ruins. Visit the free museums in many of our countries, which feature Latino artists, culture and history. In today’s era of high-tech toys, flat screen TVs and cell phones, it is easy to program the digital babysitter to watch over our children. However, it is a crime against our culture and the sacrifices made by so many previous generations to allow Microsoft and Apple to erase our collective memory.

It is a beautiful thing when Anglo-American discovers Frida Kahlo and all that she offered the world. It is a tragedy when you ask a Latino child who Frida Kahlo was and they don’t know. Therefore, I challenge anyone reading this to take a few hours, pick up his or her kids and go see the Kahlo exhibit (http://www.philamuseum.org/). It will transform your relationship with art and make you love Frida. If you can’t do that before May 18^th, then visit El Museo Del Barrio in New York City (http://www.elmuseo.org/), or introduce your child to a book about famous Latinos. By the way, Christopher Columbus was Italian.

I often correlate love with an unknown poet whom I shared a stage with once. As my stomach was turning from some terrible cheeseburgers from White Castle and my best friend (and the world’s most talented spoken word artist yet to be discovered) sat there waiting for our turn to perform, a poet whose name and poem we don’t remember, said the most profound words I heard in a while. He said, “Love, that’s that Bull S%&T.” He did have a poem that described why, but I can’t remember anything. I do remember saying, “Wow, so simple but yet so profound.”

I’m not saying that being in love is BS, I’m just saying Love is BS. I’ll explain what I mean. I love my family: every single cousin, uncle, aunt, etc. I love my mom, my brother and most definitely love my niece to no end. But the love for family can get you in some pickles, boy I tell you. Where to begin? Well in order to touch upon all different types of love I will speak first about my family, specifically my niece.

My niece is a 7-year-old genius (she has to be, she’s my niece and the genes do run in the family) who I barely get to see due to our geographical distance. She lives in California and I live in NJ. So, after experiencing for a second time in 2006 the neglect from my niece because she never sees me, I decided to have her in NJ for five weeks last summer. Yes, Gerson played tio for real. It was roll-up-your-sleeve-and-get-your-hands-dirty time. Well, the first five days were hell; I got punched, kicked, bitten, scratched and probably cussed out too. We just didn’t seem to get along; she was set in her ways and I was trying to set different ones. Not only did I blow my budget by $2,000 (that’s when I realized I don’t make enough money to have kids), I was physically abused, mentally strained, and physically exhausted, but my heart was fulfilled. I saw a violent little girl become a ray of sunshine everywhere we went. Heck, even my luck with women changed, for a little while. We went from, “Tio, I hate you”, to, “Tio, I hate you.” I know what you’re thinking, it’s the same thing. Nope. We came to the conclusion that by the end of her trip, her saying, “Tio I hate you,” was her way of saying I love you, but since we started with I hate you, she just switched the meaning. I saw a little girl who came here with no manners leave saying “excuse me,” writing in journals, and wanting to learn about life in general. We even had discussions about Jim Crow Laws and how they affected Mexicans in Texas and California. But I love her, and $2,000 in debt and a few bruises later, we have a bond, all because, “Love, that’s that Bull S&*T” that will make you do the impossible.

Now, a different type of love: the love for sports. I‘ve loved sports ever since I was a little kid in El Salvador. Fútbol was my love; oh man I could play all day and all night. My hero, Ever Hernandez, lived up the street and was a national hero for scoring a goal to qualify El Salvador for the World Cup in 1982. Oh God I loved the sport! I loved everything about it, even the way announcers would go crazy right before a goal, or if the person missed the shot. The urgency of the game, the patience, the strategy, the athleticism everything that encompassed the sport I loved. My grandma on the other hand wasn’t too pleased with me loving the sport more than school, food, or anything else that got in the way of playing with a 50-cent plastic ball out in the street. But due to certain reasons not to be mentioned in this blog, I was brought to the United States where fútbol became soccer and only rich kids played it. I was confused because I was poor and I played it in El Salvador. I was poor in the United States and they gave me a glove and a baseball. Against my will I became a Dodgers fan and became the most coveted second baseman on my block. Ok, I made that up, but I was there every summer and every day after school throwing a tennis ball against the wall and watching it bounce into my glove. God I loved baseball, I loved the Dodgers! I loved the batting line-up, from Steve Sax to Fernando Valenzuela when he was pitching. And yes, in 1988 at the top of my lungs I screamed when the Dodgers won the World Series and I cried when they were swept in the playoffs in 1991. How sadistic love is, to bring you to euphoria and then bring you down. Now twenty years removed from that World Series win, I don’t love baseball, I love fútbol again. Yes, I can afford cleats and I can afford the so expensive shin guards my mom couldn’t afford, and I can pay myself into a league and I’m loving it. But just like that I got an injury; yup, once again, “Love, that’s that Bull S&%T.”

Then there is love for a specific person. You know what I’m talking about, that “I want to look into your eyes until eternity consumes us” love. You know, the “My sweat and your sweat gets lost in translation” love. Yeah, that love. When do you know you love someone? When you lose yourself thinking about them day and night. You know, the puppy love that makes you lose your appetite. The love that makes everything seem ok because you’re walking around in a daze, thinking about that person. Going home late and getting whooping is ok because you know what? I’m in love! Her beauty captivates the essence of a man that I want to be. I want to be her “all” and be her “Alpha and Omega” love. And then something happens that you lose love, or you lose touch. Lately I’ve been confronted with the past, and the past has showed me that you don’t stop loving, you just forget you loved. When that person walks through the door and years have gone by and there it is like nothing has happened, that could be love. And now, there is baggage being carried around from the accumulated miles of your absence. But seeing them is like the sun rising for the first time in years. Man, there’s that love again (or is it?), creeping into the heart and breaking every cell in your body to weaken you to lose your senses. Hell will freeze over before this love can work, yet, you try because it’s love and “Love, that’s that Bull S&%T.” Because now you have to face it, now you have to live in a world of those who would look down at you for being in love with the wrong person. Can you fight love? Nah, you have to endure it, you have to take it. It’s another story of Cyrano de Bergerac not losing himself to the end just to know that a poem is all he can say to profess that, “Love, that’s that Bull S&%T”.

Then there is that love for your people love. The, I love pupusas love. The, I come from the Anahuac culture love. The, I love women with caramel skin, wide hips and round… love. You know, the type of love of your people that when you see them gathered at a rally, you say, “I love my people” love. The, Pancho Villa love, fight for the rights of his people. The Pedro Albizu Campos love, where a Harvard graduate could have worked anywhere for big riches, yet he chose to try to make Puerto Rico independent. You know that Lolita Lebron love, where she sacrificed her freedom to send a message to Congress about her Puerto Rico. Then there’s the Dolores Huerta love, where she worked with many elite Xicano leaders to make the Grape Boycott a reality. Or the Cesar Chavez love, where he was peaceful and intelligent and marched and fasted for his people. Or the Martin Luther King Jr. love, where he knew that speaking out against the Vietnam War would get him killed but still did it. The Harriet Tubman love where a life sacrifice is a second thought compared to freedom. That’s the love that can’t be compared, the “I will give my life for my people to be free of any political oppression” love. And you do those things, because that love is the greatest love you can have. And when it’s all said and done, “Love , that’s that Bull S%&T.”

My fingers tingled and my stomach roared as I readied to open the e-mail from the Columbia admissions office. I had had a career change – working as an advocacy and press coordinator since July of last year – only to find that I missed being a reporter more than ever. I decided to apply to Columbia School of Journalism in January, realizing it would be a long shot to get in, but I took the plunge anyway.

My passion for journalism started at 16. Jack O’Connor, my favorite teacher at Union Hill High, was the person who inspired me to become a journalist. Before meeting Jack, I had wanted to go into psychology. Because I had struggled with my weight and batted to overcome anorexia, I wanted to help men and women find hope and recover from eating disorders. But after taking Jack’s journalism class, I realized I could help even more people by writing about issues like the mental health illness stigma in the Latino community, and suicide contagion amongst young adults.

In high school, Jack’s lectures on the technical aspects of writing were frustrating – but learning about the proper use of English grammar helped when I was accepted to a prestigious writing program at Columbia University the summer before my senior year in high school. Jack always pushed me to write better stories, ask better questions, and not get discouraged. “Carmen, this paragraph is too long. This quote doesn’t make sense. What angles can you take with these stories?” he would ask.

At Rutgers I joined The Daily Targum, where I got my first taste and love of politics, and writing about political issues. In my three years as a reporter and editor there, I traveled to Washington, D.C., to cover an affirmative-action protest, to Trenton to interview students fighting budget cuts, and to Boston to cover the 2004 presidential campaign. In the years since, I have interviewed reformed murderers, cancer survivors, political and religious leaders, a beekeeper who loved his hobby and teachers who encouraged their students to fundraise for a local food bank.

Still, it was Jack’s support that helped me gain the confidence I needed as a young writer. He encouraged me to remember the “human interest” aspect of stories, and to never give up on an assignment, even if sources proved difficult. “There is more than one way of getting a story,” Jack would stay, while stroking his mustache and hoisting a black backpack on his left shoulder.

I had just accepted a part-time reporting position at The Trenton Times days before getting the notification e-mail, and the subsequent letter through the mail. I took a deep breath, and clicked on the e-mail: “After a thoughtful selection process, you have been chosen from a pool of extraordinary applicants to become a part of what we hope will be the most engaging, invigorating and challenging learning experience of your life.”

Considering only 286 students get accepted for every 1,000 that apply to the Master of Science program, I nearly fainted when I opened the e-mail. I am looking forward to starting classes next month.