Presidential Candidates in Guatemala

My father will be voting "Nulo" in Guatemala's upcoming presidential elections, which is a surprise if you know the eternal optimism of my dad (something I believe I've inherited). Word from my mother is that he'll go, vote, do his civic duty, but he won't vote for any of them. There isn't a candidate worth voting for.

Not a good sign for the country.

Blacks vs Latinos in Baseball

Gary Sheffield made some "controversial" comments about why there are more Latinos then blacks in the major leagues.

According to Sheff, it's because Latinos can be "controlled" better than black players. Here he is implying that blacks are more confrontational and have more attitude, are uncoachable. He's black, so I guess he can say that and it can go by the boards without it being an issue.

As for the Latino part, he claims that the language and other factors like poverty play a major role. It's really an illuminating article, since a lot of what he's saying, while "controversial" to the mainstream (anything said with any degree of certainty about any particular race is now considered politically incorrect) media, makes a lot of sense.

He goes on to say:

"It's not that they can control us; maybe when we come to this country, we're hungry," Guillen told the newspaper. "We're trying to survive. Those guys sign for $500,000 or $1 million and they're made. We have a couple of dollars. You can sign one African-American player for the price of 30 Latin players. Look at how many Latin players have won Cy Youngs or MVP awards the last couple of years, how many Latin players have been in the All-Star Game; it's quantity and quality."

This is something I've said before about making it in the big leagues: many Latin players are playing for their families well beings, to get them out of poverty in their countries of origin. Think about the motivation and dedication a person is infused with when this type of stuff is on the line. This isn't poverty like the poverty we see in the US, this is third-world, heavy duty, real poverty.

Sure, there are a lot of poor blacks in this country, but as Sheff points out, there are more baseball camps being launched internationally than here in the US.

I commend him for saying what he believes in an era when no one says anything mildly controversial.

My Shakira moment

When I was a freshman in college I went to a party at the Mods, an area of the campus where only seniors were supposed to hang out. These were apartment-style housing units that originally were there for students that had families.

Anyway, once you got inside one of the apartments, which was easy, you had all the beer and booze you wanted or could handle.

One of the first times I was there, this is when I was very insecure (or more so), dressed horribly, and knew nothing about anything. So I was standing there in a checkered shirt that I thought was pretty cool, kind of checking out the scene.

Then a song came on, one that reminded me of Guatemala and everything I had "left behind." So I got pumped up and started kind of mouthing the lyrics. You know, I got lost in the moment with the beer running through me, the music jamming, memories flowing, and the party atmosphere of these senior apartments.

It was a Shakira song when Shakira had black hair and was considered alternative in Latin America. She was a complete unknown in the US.

Next thing I know I see a girl across the room staring at me and telling her friends, "Oh my god! Look at this guy! He knows the lyrics!"

She was drunk, obviously, and she came over and started talking to me.

At that point I thought, "Sweet, finally the Guatemalan thing pays off here."

I told her where I was from, she was in awe of it, couldn't believe it, but then took a closer look at me: too skinny for my height, too much acne to be of any relevance to the opposite sex, dressed too much like a freshman in high school, let alone college.

She got over her awe real quick and we both went about our business at the party—her hanging out with her friends and me drinking too much beer and just kind of standing around next to my friends.

It was one of those rare instances that really let people identify me as something "Latino." Ever since then I strain and reach for anything I can do, say or pantomime that will let people see that I am "Latino."

Why? Because we all want to be different, don't we?

Speaking of Spying

It's interesting that the one things that drew the most interest when I started this blog was the whole spying thing, by which I mean you can listen in on strangers talking (sometimes about you) about something. They assume, because of how you look, you don't know what they're saying. Little do they know . . .

You know the rest (hilarity ensues)

For whatever reason I had been waiting to post on my favorite spy story, which happened in Boston. Well yesterday I had another incident happen, so today you get the Boston one and the yesterday one, both good ones, I think.

So I'm standing on the T (subway) in Boston just minding my own business, staring out the window and daydreaming. Suddenly I realize there is a mother and daughter standing across from me talking in Spanish. I decide to tune in:

Mother: Just talk to him
Daughter (15 years old): What am I going to say?
M: Anything, just something, if that's how you feel.
D: No-ooo mom!
M: Well that way nothing will happen.

And it hits me: I am the topic of conversation here. A few things went through my mind: an ego boost, nerves, and a question—what do I do about this?

After some thought, I ask the two, in English, "So, where are you guys from?"

"Oh, Ecuador," the mother says smiling. The daughter just kind of smiles too.

"Oh really? Cool." A little pause to let it all build.

"I'm from Guatemala," I drop it.

Daughter goes red and mother's mouth goes agape.

"So you know Spanish?"
"Oh yeah," big smile.

That was followed by a few awkward minutes of quiet, the daughter just about wanted to die. They got off at their next stop.


So that was a good one, here is a bad one. The most recent one:

So Mindy and I go to Chipotle to get some tacos. We get to the counter to pay and we do and we take our food to our table. Once there, Mindy realizes we ordered a side of guacamole and we didn't get it.

So I go back to the counter and ask this guy (who is hispanic and totally gay, by the way, as is everyone back behind the counter (hispanic, not gay)) if maybe we left our guac behind, that we didn't get it.

He tells the other hispanic girl to prep a fresh order of guac.

"Oh you don't need to do that, I think we just left it on the counter," I say, trying to help you know.

He smiles at me and goes, really nice, "Oh it's no problem."

Then he turns to the girl and, in Spanish, goes, "Ya me estan dando pajas," which is a vulgar way to say "This guy is full of shit."

So my face goes red, I can feel this, and wait until my guac is served. I pick it up off the counter and go, in Spanish, "No es paja," which is akin to "It's not bullshit."

I guess he was assuming a few things here: that we didn't pay for it and wanted some free guac (which fuck you man, who does that) and that I didn't speak Spanish.

So I'm pissed off now. I go back to my seat and am fuming, telling Mindy the lowdown. We eat and later on we run out of Guac. Mindy hints that some salsa would be great since we still have chips. So I go up to the counter to the hispanic girl and ask for an order of salsa. The huge menu says it's 1.25, so I take out two bucks while she readies it. I get my order and she goes "Is too twenty."

I'm kind of surprised but am like, ok, so I take out another one, pay, and go sit down.

I tell Mindy the menu must be old, out of date. I look at my ticket and notice that it says "Chips and guacamole - $2," which is what it says on that huge menu I was basing myself on.

So now I see a chance to really be a dick so I go back and tell the girl she charged me for the wrong thing. I struggle to understand what she's saying, her English is not good, but finally I tell her I just want my money back, the difference anyway. She gives it to me and gives me a little fake smile that makes me wish I could slap it off.

Chipotle? I'm done with that particular store, they've lost my business for life.


So in a nutshell that's the spying game.