Mr. Diaz(s)+

It should have never been your story Mr. White.

Last night I got to see McFarland USA with a few running friends from local run groups here in LA. All of us were not white. In fact, one friend noted we were all Mexican expect for Jerone. Not true. I’m not. I’m Guatemalan. Full Guatemalan. Instead of politely correcting her. The 6th grader within me gave her two middle fingers. Don’t worry we are still friends.

With an incredible trailer, we all had high hopes for McFarland USA and had been talking about it for months via Fauxbook. The film opened with Mr. White entering a locker room full of  white high school football team. And just like that it was over. We were set up to see how Mr. White was fated to meet a group of marginalized students from McFarland, CA that needed saving. Which is fine. Because there could be truth in that. I grew up in the Central Valley. I played sports. I had male saviors. White and Mexican. Coaches that gave their entire selves financially and otherwise to inspire me and my teammates to glory. Based on a true story, Disney showed us Mr. White was the only possible vehicle to present a story of a hard working and dedicated Mexican high school cross-country team.

There is one particular moment that solidifies the entire film for me. That beautiful moment when Mr. White points directly at the camera isn’t what you think it is. You are made to feel that he is pointing at you? His team? But he’s pointing at the scoreboard. A quantified representation of defying the odds and rising above. Such a let down. We aren’t worthy unless we are on the scoreboard. We aren’t worthy until the White man says. Or in this case, points.

As for casting, Kevin Costner was the only able person to portray Mr. White. Because Kevin Costner is from the Central Valley! Not true. In the 7th grade, Matthew Cheney told me his dad went to Mt. Whitney High School with Kevin Costner. Costner attended for less than a year. And I trust my source.

At the end of the day, I’m glad this story was told. A story of the American Dream, unfortunately told through blue eyes. Not brown.

FOB: From the other Latino in the audience

Wednesday night I attended the Fresh Off the Boat (FOB) premiere screening in Little Tokyo with my best friend, Okamoto. Yes, my Japanese-American BFF invited me. So I’m legit.

It was a perfectly executed screening with a nervous and excited energy (#repsweats). After the pilot episode the panel shared their first impressions and opened up to hear questions and comments.

One of the first to speak up from the audience was a self-described Latino. He praised FOB for being genuine and in the same note shit on George Lopez for lacking it -- for being white washed. Still two days later I’m fuming with anger. 

OF COURSE GEORGE LOPEZ WAS WATERED DOWN. 

It was a generic ugly, overweight husband with a smart, hot wife and annoying grandparent that just happen to be Mexican. A typical American family sitcom made possible by Sandra Bullock. George Lopez was in no way revolutionary like FOB. And I’m not talking about the-it’s-been-20-years-since-an-Asian-American-family-has-been-on-TV. It’s a story about the American Dream. A story about an immigrant family. My story.

George Lopez could only have small moments of my story: when the daughter refused to swim in PE because she wasn’t allowed to shave her legs. That was me. A panelist said it best when she noted: the audience wants to see themselves as the narrative, as the central character. George Lopez was safe and didn’t rock the boat too much. George Lopez didn’t want to fail and block out twenty years of Latino Families on TV. The struggle wasn’t so real for the third/fourth generation Lopez family. George Lopez missed the mark.

FOB and Cristela, another non-white family sitcom on ABC hit the mark. And they hit the mark hard. We are different. Our parents do have accents. We sometimes do too. We can make fun of Middle America. And we can do so with intelligence and satire. FOB is victorious and hype-worthy because of its controversial title and memoir. Cristela has a vagina. It’s a sleeper no one is talking about. It wasn’t given airtime in between The Middle and Modern Family. It was given Friday night at 8:30pm. Where TV shows go to die. This walking-dead sitcom was created by, written by, and produced by a Latina: Cristela Alonzo. She is hustling across the nation-- The View appearances, stand-up comedy, guest appearances on General Hospital and working on a sitcom. She is Shonda Rhimes 2.0!

Back to the screening

The question of success was brought up. Will Middle America watch FOB? Maybe. Maybe not. But who cares if a soccer mom in St. Louis doesn’t resonate with FOB. My people will. My people do. And our numbers are too big to ignore anymore. We are the audience. Those Rose Hills commercials should have featured a stereotypical ancient Mayan instead.

Thank you ABC (and other production companies involved) for all the diversity this past season. You’re not all off the hook entirely. But you are on the right track. Finally. We are watching...

Here I go

I can't bring myself to write. To share my thoughts. I am always considering my privacy. It's torture. I want to speak. I want to express myself. This world is cruel. This world is judgmental. This world is bias. 

Be silent. Be still. Be silent. Be still. 

Will my internet rants block my career dreams? My snarky comments? Should I just shut up? Could I filter? Could I ever? 

Is it immature to carry on this personal blog? Is it teenage angst? 

Aw. Fuck it. 

We didn't have a winter this year

You would think the rainfall helps
me sleep. But instead I lay in resentment.
You would think your shouts
HEYBABY boost my confidence. But
instead I am  reminded of
My genetic gravitational pull to pink,
tutus,
To get into a college for that MRS
degree.
Your gravitational pull to dehumanize
me because I crossed YOUR path
To disregard the, that I could be your
sister-mother-daughter argument.

HEYBABY is not a compliment.

I can still hear your insecurity.
Drip on, but the sun will come out.
Tomorrow.

Finally.

Over 300 days of summer. Sunshine. 

Heat. Warmth. 

For 300 days of summer. Sunshine. Heat. Warmth. Humidity. Sweat. 

For 300 days of winter. Clouds. Cold. Coldness. Humidity. Horrid. 

Back to MY paradise. Back to MY promised land. Milk and Honey. 

We've learned. And learned again. Will it be enough? 

Burning summer days. 

Relieving summer night lights. 

Reminding me of grace. 

Nightly grace. 

Promised Land. Milk and Honey. 

My paradise. My home. 

I'm one lucky bastard. 

I'm a nuance to society today.

Tourists. Tourists everywhere. And not a drop to spare.

It's a rainy day in Bilbao. Thursday to be exact. I've rediscovered my annoyance for being within museum walls. The Gugg is beautiful from the outside. But in escaping the rain, I've entered hell.

Old ladies sneaking and eating food. "All we are missing is wine". Tia Julia is present and accounted for.

Parents forcing their children to be cultured during spring break. Come on. They are 8!

And me. Using my second visit to the Gugg to write this post. Are the exhibits different. Yes. Some. Did I give the new ones a chance? No.

I'm that teenage-looking fuck. Sitting across from another teenage-looking fuck. Taking advantage of the sitting area or "library". Using the wifi to write this shitty post.

April 4. Happy Anniversary Queen B.
Need me to bow? Or run the world? Bitch.

Why I can't support the US Women's Soccer Team

Now that the Summer Oympics are "so last year", I feel that it is safe enough or rather the right time to discuss why I can't support US Women's Soccer.

Yet before I begin I'd like to preference with a bit more of who I am.

Raised in the Central Valley of California, being a soccer player was my identity since I discovered what the word meant. My first team was an all-girls AYSO team. We were the only girls team in our age division. I was placed as a forward because I was the smallest on the team. The taller girls got to play defense.  Our jersey colors were pink. I hated pink. The best year of my life concluded with a phone call to join the All-Star Team. Some other girl declined the offer. And I was called next. A last resort.

The next few seasons I refused to play on the all-girl team during the regular season. On the Purple People Eaters we won the championship. For the Pumas, I learned how to play defense because my machismo coach didn't know where else to place the only girl. I still silently thank him everyday. And I eventually looked forward to the winter All-Star Team tournaments.

Our All-Star Team out grew AYSO and became a CYSA team. We felt naked without AYSO on our jerseys, but soon forgot those days. We had bigger problems to focus on. We had to ban together. We could no longer ignore it. We didn't have uniform soccer balls. We didn't have uniform water bottles. Our warm-ups before each game were shit because we were too afraid to reveal our talent. The element of surprise was on our side. Our coaches hated our strategy. We were the Beaners.

Meanwhile, some of my teammates looked up to Mia Hamm. I didn't.
I couldn't. The 1999 Women's Soccer inspired the nation to take a second glance at women's soccer. At girls soccer. But not at beaner soccer. Sure, Mia Hamm was a brunette. But I knew she wasn't one of us.

It's been over ten years since Brandi Chastian ripped off her shirt in triumph. US Women's Soccer is still a White sport. A White sport with one Black player.

This isn't a jealous rant. At the age of 8 my mother made me chose between gymnastics and soccer. I happily chose soccer. At the age of 18, I chose a normal college life. I wanted a different identity.

This is rant on behalf of the raw talent I had the honor of playing with: Angella Vallin. CJ Gonzalez. Ida Rodriguez. Lizeth Cardenas. Big Liz Cardenas. Paula Alamillo. Jessica Carnero. And many more.

I'm not calling on diversity for the sake of diversity. I know what's out there. I've played with them. I've played against them. I couldn't unconditionally support Mia Hamm when I was 8. And I can't unconditionally support the US Women's Soccer Team then or now. I wish I could. As beautiful as Alex Morgan is and as strong as Abby Wambach is, these women as a unit are the present example of the teams who named us the "Beaner Team". Our oppressors are alive and well. Nothing has changed.