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.

When it comes to Puerto Rico, some people may not think there’s much to applaud about given recent headlines.

But for Puerto Ricans, there’s a moment in time when we always break out in applause – no matter what is going on in this crazy world of ours. It’s when our plane touches down on the ground on our beloved island.

Young and old. Those born on the island and the mainland. Rich and poor. Doesn’t matter if you left the island a few days earlier or a few decades ago. We applaud.

When the pilot lets you know that “we have started our descent into San Juan,” our hearts start beating a little faster and we start anxiously looking out the window waiting for that first glimpse of land. Because no matter how long you’ve been away, no matter if you were raised in New Jersey or New York or Wisconsin, you somehow sense that you are almost home.

A few days ago, I traveled home. The same trip I’ve taken countless times over the years.

Two little Puerto Rican kids – a sister and brother - and their mother sat in front of me. When the wheels hit the pavement, the little girl yelled out what I’m sure each and every Puerto Rican on that plane was thinking:

“¡¡Yayyyyyy!! ¡¡Ya llegamos a Puerto Rico!!”

For a moment or two, there was pure joy in the air as we applauded our homecoming. To me, it always feels as if the souls of all the generations of Puerto Ricans who have come and gone from this Earth are joining us in that sweet moment.

Once I’m on the island — in homes, in eateries, on the streets and on the beach – I witness the reality facing those who live year-round on La Isla Del Encanto.

High prices for gas, food, and housing. High unemployment. There’s one person to blame, many say.

Aníbal. As in Governor Aníbal Acevedo Vilá.

Three dollars for un helado de coco? The vendor with the pushcart just shakes his head and responds: “Aníbal. Aníbal. Aníbal.”

But despite the harsh reality, the beauty is there in all its splendor. The blue water. The skies. The sound of the coquí at night. The beautiful faces.

I was driving my aunt home after we went out for our traditional lunch and she looked up and beyond the highway we were on and the cars whizzing by us, and she gazed out at the mountains.

“¡Mira que maravilla!”

She said it as though it was the first time she had laid her eyes on those mountains. But those eyes are almost 90 years old and she’s always lived in Puerto Rico.

When my flight was about to take off to return to Newark, I felt – as I’m sure all Puerto Ricans feel when they’re departing — – that deep twinge of sadness at having to leave.

I’m already dreaming about heading back. I can’t wait for the moment when my plane touches the ground in San Juan and we all applaud because ¡¡Yayyyyyy!! ¡¡Ya llegamos a Puerto Rico!!

This lovely old video captures how I’m sure many of us feel. I dedicate it to Tia Alicia.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbCBq7daqMA&feature=related

How often do you think about your career? Not your job, your role, what you do day to day at the office but your career? How is it progressing? Are you where you want to be? Thought you would be? I must confess I am intrigued by people who have their career mapped out years in advance. I have mentors who know exactly where they want to be 5, 10 years from now. Their plan is detailed, mapped out. They review it regularly with their mentors, managers and sponsors.

Frankly, I love talking about career development. It’s so much fun! I love strategizing and planning who I will learn from, what competencies I want to develop, what scenarios I deliberately put myself in so I can grow. It’s even more fun when you’ve got a manager or mentor to strategize with. As a Latina in Corporate America, I strongly believe it’s absolutely crucial to have regular career development discussions with your mentors AND your manager. By regular I mean at LEAST once a quarter. (I have a career development item on the agenda for my monthly meetings with my manager.) Believe me, your colleagues are having these conversations much more often than this.

Years ago a former mentor told me he spends half his working time in career or mentoring discussions. This absolutely floored and challenged me to the core. This man was a Director at Microsoft. And he chose to spend his time this way. Truly the importance of career development cannot be overstated. And as a result of that conversation I spend more time thinking about my career and direction.

Frankly, I worry about our young Latinas graduating from college and entering the workforce. Will they ask for and get the support they need to be successful? Will they be taken advantage of because they have yet to learn the art of negotiation? Will they work so hard and burn out and wonder is it worth it? The answer is yes to all the above! This is the learning process of Corporate America. My hope and prayer, however, is that they do not go at it alone. Let me tell you, it’s one thing to talk to your girlfriends or boyfriends about what’s happening at work. It is all together another conversation to talk to a mentor about what’s happening at work AND develop a plan of action.

So where do you see yourself 5, 10 years from now? What’s your vision for your life and your career? I encourage every Latina who reads this to have these conversations regularly. Create a plan and ask people you respect and admire for input on a regular basis. Be deliberate about your career! I guarantee you won’t regret it and you will have a lot more fun along the way.

With society being as crazy as it is, is there really any surprise as to what is going on racially in our country? I recently read Cid Wilson’s blog and watched Rev. Al Sharpton’s speech on Latino vs. Black and also read Sen. Barack Obama’s speech on race. They hit very key points as to the unfortunate mistreatment of our people and how we are pitted against one another in order to blind us from the truth.

I know many people in this country are “blind to the facts.” But the facts are that this is a capitalist country built on racism. I mentioned before that Puerto Ricans and Mexicans are victims of the same invasion. But as I grow as an individual I see that we have blinders that makes us so patriotic to our racist country that we can’t raise a question, otherwise we are anti-American. If we don’t wear a flag pin, or we don’t put our hands over our hearts during the National Anthem, that obviously means we hate America. If we want our troops home, we must not support them.

In the 1970’s, Richard Nixon had to endure college students sleeping on the White House lawn, fighting for the return of the troops in Vietnam. In the movie “Nixon,” there is a scene where a young college student tells Nixon, “We are willing to die for this cause,” the cause of bringing the troops home, that is. I wonder how many of us would say and literally do that. Those young men in Iraq are dying for the benefit of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney’s bank account. Bush has said that they didn’t have any proof Al-Qaeda was in Iraq. HUH? Isn’t that why we went there? But back to my topic.

Latinos have to come to a realization that there is a divide in this country. The reason why we fight for jobs or we are at the bottom of the economic structure along with African-Americans isn’t because we’re lazy, or we are vagos. No it’s because a system has been put in place for us to fight over scraps. A person who thinks he is making an intelligent contribution to society will say, “In 1975 there were only 5% of Latinos in colleges and now there is 7%! We’re making progress!” Wrong dummy. That’s actually sad that in 30 years there has been only a 2% increase but we have more Latinos in the U.S. now than before. And let’s not forget that includes Mexicans, Puerto Ricans (who are U.S. citizens), Cubans, Guatemalans, El Salvadorians, Costa Ricans, Argentineans, and the rest of the South and Central Americans the comprise the Latino culture in the United States. And let’s not forget that for every one African-American that’s in college, there are seven in jail because of harsh laws against non-violent drug offenses, and that the average for Latinos is one in five. How can this be explained? How can we continue to go and undo the ugliness and terrible taste this leaves in our mouth?

It is not fair to call a black person lazy or say they’re taking advantage of welfare when 70% of the people on welfare are white Americans. And, it is not fair to call Latinos criminals for crossing over a border when this country was founded on immigration. I agree with Al Sharpton — if we are taking Homeland Security seriously, then why aren’t we building a wall along the Canadian border?

We all know that the African-American family was at its strongest during Slavery and Jim Crow laws (by the way Jim Crow Laws affected Puerto Ricans and Mexicans just the same). Parents told their children stories of the incredible spider that survived any way possible. Sometimes the spider outsmarted the “master.” Many times the spider was cunning and it accomplished something mischievous, but the moral of the story was to never give up hope, for freedom was on the horizon.

I remember reading “Black Like Me” by John Griffin when I was learning about American history (not taught in the school but taught by my mentor) and it awed me that Mexicans thought similar to some whites. The riots in my school seem so silly to me after reading this book. I, an immigrant from El Salvador, didn’t understand how two lower racial classes were always fighting amongst one another knowing that we aren’t the problem. I was confused and pissed off at us. So, I did my own research as to why certain drugs were made illegal (because we fought over drugs and territory). What did I find? Racism attached to all of them. Cocaine became an illegal substance because according to the U.S. government it would “enrage Blacks and (they would) rape white women.” Marijuana was labeled a Mexican drug because it was said to make them lazy, slowing productivity in the agricultural market. LSD was found to liberate the mind and create individual thinking, like “Make Love, Not War” and it made young adults speak out against the war in Vietnam. Funny that the great hero Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated for speaking out against the war in Vietnam as well. Don’t believe me? Check FBI records and the involvement of J. Edgar Hoover placing the Communist label on the great Reverend.

I can’t cover all the terrible atrocities done to our cultures in this blog alone (maybe a book is in the making for that), but I can definitely try to shed light to those in the dark. Our cultures, Latino and Black, have been through a lot in the existence of the United States. Some Puerto Ricans forget that they were, and still are, considered third-class citizens in a country where they are U.S. citizens. They forget that “West Side Story” was a real representation of what was going on in this country to Puerto Rican emigrants from the Island. Mexicans forget that they assisted Blacks escaping the South into Texas and that there are Black Mexicans in Mexico of The Costa Chica! And the reality is that African-Americans don’t know much about the Latino culture to make a judgment on whether we are bad or not. They are fed propaganda and brainwashed to believe what they are told from the U.S. government; after all, the government wouldn’t lie to us would they? Of course not!

Need I get into how the Bloods and Crips came to be? It’s a result of when the infiltration of the Black Panther Party by J. Edgar Hoover was authorized and the FBI created riffs between the leadership and introduced smack to the African-American community because, according to Hoover, they were “the greatest threat to the internal security of the United States.” And for those that think I’m making this up, just look up COINTELPRO and read (reading is essential). The funny thing is that just like the Treaty of Hidalgo, some of those documents have been doctored up to cover up the illegal actions of the United States government. The Black Panthers Revolutionary Party was disbanded because they were providing after school programs and breakfast to kids. Imagine, in the United States of America, a group was infiltrated by the United States because they were helping children to read and providing them with nourishment that they weren’t receiving in the schools. Brown Berets, same thing. And this is what I’m so upset about; the Brown Berets were founded on the same concept of the Panthers. And so were the incredible Young Lords of New York. Yet now, we don’t even know how to say hi to one another in the street without asking, “What set you from?”

People, we are in the same struggle and we are still struggling. Nothing has changed. How many Blacks and Latinos can honestly say (unless you’re a white Latino) that they don’t look over their shoulder when they pass a police car on the highway, even if you’re not speeding? I sure do.

So, I guess I’m being anti-American again! Damn! But if I’m not critical about this country and the way we are treated than who will be? George Bush? His father? Dick Cheney? Pat Buchanan? Have you heard what he said about the how much America has helped black people in this country? And how whites were generous enough to give them welfare, Section 8 housing, etc.? Heck if he can say that and not be anti-American (it is common knowledge that the wealth in the United States was built on free labor from slaves, so they made this country the financial power it once was), then I guess I can get away with saying what I’m saying. Because to say that whites have helped Blacks, is like saying the Joker helped Batman build the Bat Cave.