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: Mexican-American
In One California Town, a Holiday Co-Opted by Beer Companies Has Roots in a Celebrated Citrus Crop
By José M. Alamillo
May 5, 2015
What’s with Cinco de Mayo, anyways?
Corporate advertisers treat it as the de facto Mexican Day, if not Latino Day, in this country. In 1998, the United States Post Office issued a Cinco de Mayo stamp featuring two folklórico dancers. In 2005, Congress passed a resolution making Cinco de Mayo an official national holiday to celebrate Mexican-American heritage. And it’s customary for presidents to celebrate Cinco de Mayo on the White House lawn with margaritas flowing, mariachi music playing, and dancers …
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I First Learned English, Then Spanish, to Navigate My Identity in This Big Country
By Manuel H. Rodriguez
April 24, 2015
Sister Paula, our eighth grade teacher at Holy Cross Elementary School in South Los Angeles informed us one morning in 1944 that Fridays would be devoted to public speaking. Which meant that each of us, standing in front of the class, had to recite something we had memorized. She said we could recite anything we wanted. Most boys opted to tell jokes.
When my name was called, I stifled an inner groan (I was very shy), walked to the front of …
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The Rhythms I Play and Dance Collided on the American Continent—Then I Made Them My Own
By Martha Gonzalez
December 5, 2014
The annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival was in full bloom on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. in late June. Audiences flocked to different stages and exhibits that shared the finest music cultures in the world. As I approached the workers’ trailer, I knew it was the last time I would hold my tarima (stomp box) and old zapateado shoes. I’d participated with my band Quetzal in a moving tribute concert to legendary folk singer Pete Seeger the previous evening, and …
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Living in the Space Between Two Countries Forces You to Rethink Your Definition of Community
By Felipe Hinojosa
November 21, 2014
As soon as I spot the rows of palm trees lining Highway 77, I know I’ve arrived home. That’s the point where I roll down my windows to feel the humid and hot winds of the Lower Rio Grande Valley. When I did just that on a recent trip from College Station, where I live now, my 9-year-old son asked loudly from the back seat, “Papi, why does it smell like steak?” My response was swift: “Because Friday night lights, …
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