Mi Problema -- By Michele Serros

Mi Problema
From Chicana Falsa and other stories of death, identity, and Oxnard
by Michele Serros




My sincerity isn't good enough.

Eyebrows raise
when I request:

"Hable mas despacio, por favor."
My skin is brown
just like theirs,
but now I'm unworthy of the color
'cause I don't speak Spanish
the way I should.
Then they laugh and talk about
mi problema
in the language I stumble over.

A white person gets encouragement,
praise,
for weak attempts at a second language.
"Maybe he wants to be brown
like us."
and that is good.

My earnest attempts
make me look bad,
dumb.

"Perhaps she wanted to be white
like THEM."
and that is bad.

I keep my flash cards hidden
a practice cassette tape
not labeled
'cause I am ashamed.
I "should know better"
they tell me
Spanish is in your blood.

I search for S.S.L. classes,
(Spanish as a Second Language)
in college catalogs
and practice
with my grandma.
who gives me patience,
permission to learn.

And then one day,
I'll be a perfected "r" rolling
tilde using Spanish speaker.
A true Mexican at last!

Why doing good feels so bad

I tell myself every time I go into Safeway that I am NOT going to back down. I'm just going to tell her no, and be on my way. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep being guilted into this. I can't keep letting the mean old grey haired miserable lady at the checkout pressure me into 'rounding up to the next dollar to donate to breast cancer'. Ugh!! She gets me every time!! I go in there with a clear shopping mission and only bring enough money for just the things I need, maybe an extra buck or two if I need to buy a fat girl treat, but thats it. Anyway, it happens like this: I gather my goods, usually a bunch of bananas, some bagged salad and some tortillas and as usual the ghetto-fabulous Safeway I live near is always flooded with people and only three checkers to accommodate them. I file myself in line with the rest of the neighborhood and patiently wait my turn. Then the pressure starts to build. I tell myself, 'say no, just say no'. Think of all the money you would be saving if you just said no!! As I get closer to the register, I can hear the Grumpy checker, who never says 'hello' or 'how are you', but sure as shit asks the dreaded question "would you like to round up to help fight breast cancer'? To help fight breast cancer? Now is my rounded change really going to fight this disease? By giving up my 25, 35 even sometimes 75 cents, am I arming fighter cells with swords and shields to fight off those evil rogue breast cancer cells? I'd love to think that was the case. I'd actually would feel better about this donation if there was some sort of reassurance that my money was really going to fight this disease. Show me pictures of mastectomies, or of women who are bald and going through chemotherapy, show me more than pink sustainable shopping bags, or day old cupcakes with pink ribbons on them and prove to me that my hard earned money is actually fighting breast cancer! It may be rotten of me to feel this way, but I do. I need more than the scorn from the bitter cashier, or the guilt from hearing other customers cave to the dreaded question, I need more tangible assurance that what could be buying at least 1 tall black coffee at Starbucks is actually fighting breast cancer.

Endless Joy at the Dollar tree.

I seem to be on this kick where little things in my everyday life are making me happy. This is probably because Im broke and basically can't partake in the lavish or fancy things that the rich and indebted are enjoying.
So today, I was in need of dish soap and Fabuloso. With the last 2 dollars that I had in cash, I took a little trip to the most comprhensive Dollar Tree I have ever been to. This place has everything a beaner on a budget could ever dream of. From brand name rubbermaid containers, to off brand and questionable pregnancy tests, this place freaking has it all. I wandered up and down all of the aisles, thinking I could totally sustain a living off of the products in this store. They have all of the cleaning essentials I need with the labels in espanol mind you, tons of food products like the nacho cheese sauce that looks like it should be refridgerated, but for some reason is sitting on the shelf right next to Mrs.Fletchers 100 calorie brownie cakes. Then there is the aisle of dollar shampoo, conditioner, ovulator predictors, and pregnancy tests. Im wondering why there arent't any dollar condoms, but something tells me, that with all of the baby detectors here, dollar rubbers aren't that reliable. Oh, oh, and then there is all of the stationary, balloons, fake flowers and my favorite halloween stuff, basically all of the shit that I keep in bags in my closet and use every few months when I need to give a gift or make my home a little more festive.
So basically, to wrap it up, Im broke and the dollar tree makes me happy, so happy that I needed to take some pictures to illustrate the joy from the store that makes my measly 10 dollars feel like a million bucks!

I wanna give a shout out to 'La Sad Girl" in Moreno Valley

There's probably nothing in the world that makes me happier than to tune in to Art Laboe on a Sunday night and hear a thick ass Chicana accent, giving a shout out to the homies/baby daddy/familia out there in La pinta, or just kickin it at home. The exhange between Art Laboe's 90 year old ass and the devoted cholos and cholas every week remind me of the desert days when me and my three best friends would sit around, eat hot cheetos, drink Jarritos sodas, and try to get through the phone line to request "Girls It Ain't Easy". For some reason, we felt that at the age of 11, we knew that the world had to be tough place. Hearing the stories of the vatos locked up and the rucas that were waiting for them, made us all think that life in LA had to be pretty rough and that the airbrushed happy/sad dichotomy that taught us to 'smile now, cry later' had to have some truth to it. Although none of us grew up in Los Angeles or around the 'cholo' lifestyle, we still felt like we were badass enough to wear belts with the metal buckles with our initials and that it was our duty to try and get through the phone lines. It was almost as if getting through the phone lines and dedicating such hits as "Only the Strong Survive", and "Angel Baby", somehow connected us to this whole Southern California culture of love, crime, olides, family, and 'homies'.
To hear the Art Laboe radio show now, not only makes my heart happy, but it also makes it break a little. I miss the days of being a nappy headed kid, without a clue. The world even though it seemed as if we were headed for a heap of shit, wasn't so compicated. I miss being fascinated by the voices I heard on the airwaves and wondering what "Mousey and Flaco" looked like. Chances were, Mousey had a bad peroxide dye job, with big saggy boobs with her vatos name badly tattood across it, and Flaco was probably an overweight 40-something year old doing time for a crime he's going to prove he's innocent of. And by the power of Mousey's dedication of "I Only Have Eyes For You", and Art's over dramatic sloppy 'Kiss', we knew that everthing was going to be alright.

PS..the spell check on this blog was ridiculous... guess google isn't down with the Cali slang!

I love Portland and all....

But these skinny boys in 'Never Nude' shorts are really getting to me. I don't know where the trend started, but somewhere, the bullemic boys of Portland took a vote and decided it would be fashionable to wear tight cut offs during the summer. Now I don't know about you, but I find these shorts to be troublesome. Not only do they to make me aware of how fat my ass has gotten, but also wonder if these boys are interfering witht the circulatio to their giblets? Maybe im just hatin', but this trend serioulsy makes me wish it was pants weather again.

Young, Broke, and Beautiful

Here's a little segment where I like to display and glorify the 'impoverished' life of a collge student. This week I would like to take the time to give a shout out to Colorsilk, By Revlon. For just $7.00, I can color this thick ass mane of mine, and get (near) salon results! Not only does this recession friendly product cover my roots, but it comes with a packet of hair conditioner that I can ration out for the rest of the week and best of all also comes with rubber gloves that can be re-used for washing dishes, or givin' a health exam! Who the hell needs a fancy salon dye job when I can do one in my own bedroom for just a fracation of the price. Thank you Colorsilk, for keeping me beautiful.

Why being single kicks ass

So, Im in my bed, with my hair a mess, no make-up on, eating a bowl of oatmeal for dinner and watching episodes of My So-Called life. As I look around my room and see the chonies thrown on the floor, the fitness magazines scattered about and my arts and crafts sprawled out all over the floor, I can't help but feel compelled to write a short list of why being a single gal rocks.

1. Watching re-runs of teen melodramas all day is totally acceptable. I have complete control of the Internet tv watching.
2. Brushing my teeth is optional. Granted, I love to keep a clean mouth and usually never skip a brushing, but having the option to run around with total shit breath is disgustingly comforting.
3. Spending my money on myself. Sure, its thoughtful and nice to spend money on someone you love, but what happens if your significant other's birthday lands on the same day tickets to Depeche Mode go on sale? Thats when I say sorry sucka, sacrifices need to be made, and you're no Dave Gahan.
4. Free drinks at the bar.... need I really say more? I have this formula down to a science. When Im out with my girlfriends I have a 2 drink rule. I am only allowed to buy myself 2 drinks, then the rest are up to the pathetic losers on barstools.
5. Not having to explain random/late night texts or phone calls. They happen, most of the time they are a bad idea. But hey at least the option to get into some trouble is out there. I mean really, who needs a boyfriend to cockblock your opportunities?

there are a million more, like: Not shaving your legs, not having having an ego (among other things) to stroke. Not having to deal with male PMS, being able to sleep diagonally in the bed if I want to, smiling at babies without having to explain that I don't want one, being able to order my meals in the most finicky and bizarre way without sighs of annoyance.... oh the list could go on into the night. But basically, what it comes down to is that I really enjoy the pleasure of my own company.... now back to the teen soap operas.

I am homesick

I am homesick. Though I don't know which home I yearn for. For a moment, I feel like a small child, and only want to feel the touch of my mothers arms, the warmth of her chest, the smell of her aged skin, and the feel of of the bond that only lies between a child and her mother. I want to feel as if the umbilical cord was never cut. I want to crinkle back up into her belly and feel protected by her.
On the other hand, I am afflicted by the feeling of wanting to be that trouble making kid again. I want to be so innocent, or at least claim to be. I want run barefoot on the pavement until my feet turn black. I want to steal 99 cent apple pies from the day old bakery along with other expired candies, and split them with my friends. We all thought we were so bad ass, dying our hair 'auburn' and listening to dirty rap songs.... oh to be young and oblivious again.
Then there are the days, not too long ago. When I first embarked on this journey of my own. The days when I was too young to know any better but too young to care. The days when I was newly 18 and having a beer was a big deal. The days when I was awkward with my body, my mind, my sexuality. The days when I thought that anything over 21 was old and that time had no hold on my young body.
Fast forward about four years, and you find the time when I really found out who I was and who I wasn't. When I discovered the power of my presence. The influence of my logic, and the weakness of my heart. I miss knowing it all, and at the same time being completely unaware that there was a whole different side to myself that I never knew.
Now, at this moment, I guess I miss a culmination of all of that. Which could all be summed up into my life last summer. I was free, I was in transition. My eyes were open, my heart was broken. I was strong, I was on the edge of something big, something new.
I guess being here for almost a year, my heart and mind have once again curious and this homesickness has made me realize, its time to shake things up, and get ready for the next big leap.

an open apology to anyone I have come in contact with today

The purpose of this blog is to do something that I rarely do. Let me make sure Im ready to do this.. okay, exhale, stretch, inhale....now say "its just an apology, its just an apology, you do fuck up sometimes".... Okay IM SORRY. To anyone that I may have talked to today, come in contact with, looked at or even thought about, I apologize.
NOW BIG SIGH OF RELIEF... that wasn't so bad.
Today was one of those days where from the moment I opened my eyes, I knew I was not going to be the barrel of sunshine that I ususally am. I woke up too early, I smelled cat shit in the bathroom, I forgot to turn in my Netflix movies, and worst of all, I was out of bananas. Now if that isnt the recipe for complete fucking unhappiness I dont know what is. So in my utterly pathetic defense, today was a shit day. From the start it went wrong. I guess I was in just one of those funks where there was nothing that anyone could do to make it better. Everyone I came in contact with got to experience the ugly side of me that is only reserved for creepy guys, hostile lesbians, and shithead teenagers. I was rude to the cashier at safeway. I didn't give a rats ass how much I saved with my club card. I judged the people in the ice cream aisle, thinking now really, should their fat asses be taking advantage for the 2 for $5 quarts of assorted flavors? And as for anyone I talked to, well lets just say the conversation was so empty and hollow that they would have probably enjoyed talking to someone from a call center in India rather than dealing with my moody ass.
So there it is, my formal apology for my shit mood and mistreatment of humanity today. It is now 1am, and I can already feel in my bones that this day is going to be better. Unless it rains.. oh Jesus, Lord help us all if it rains.... you thought today was bad....

Racial identity crisis.... mile 1

Moving to Portland has made me highly aware of the fact that I am not another face in the crowd. I am some shade of brown with infusions of cultures that I have grown up with or adopted, and ultimately I am a mis-mash of traditions, expressions, cuisine and language. There's no denying that in the center of my soul, I am brown. I use the word brown because I cannot bring myself to say Latina, Chicana, or the one that sounds like a disease, Hispanic. What brings me to this heightened awareness of my ethnicity was a the group run that I had this morning.


Now running for fun isn't exactly something that us brown folks are known for. Sure the jokes are made that we run from 'La Migra' or that we're better swimmers, but for me, being the whitewashed gal that I am, its something that I'm passionate about. But arriving at a massive training event for the Portland Marathon, its obvious that I am the splash of cafe in the leche. In the sea of white people packed in NikeTown, I feel like the little poor brown girl who cant afford all of the fancy gear... the 300 dollar watches, hear monitors, hi-tech water packs, aerodynamic tights, reflective gloves..... no, I'm there with my tights from Target, Nike shorts thrown over them, a sweatshirt I found on clearance in Texas during the summer, and my refilled Aquafina water bottle that I plan to carry in my hand. And although its just in my head, I feel these fancy runners staring at me. Looking at me like I looked at the 3 Spanish speaking guys who I registered at my running clubs 5k. They looked like complete armatures who had just fallen off of the chicken truck, and as I gave them their running bibs, I felt sorry for them that they were wearing off brand shoes and sweat pants for the race. I thought to myself, 'those poor guys, they have shitty gear, but bless their little hearts for trying'. Now the tables were turned, I might as well have been those guys, except with better english skills, and skinnier legs.


So, to make matters more awkward, we were broken up into groups and told that we cannot use our Ipods, this is to be a fun group run where everyone is there to help and support each other. Umm, excuse me? I thought this was marathon training. Im here to kick ass, not make friends. But, rules are rules, so I get in my group and let the bonding begin. Well, I do not pipe up much during this hour of forced friendship. The conversation is just so... well, white. While these people are talking about gluten free diets, and so-and so's to die for quiche, and the sale at Williams Sonoma, I can't help but try and imagine what a run with Latinos would be like. For one, we wouldn't running in this perfect formation. We would be swapping places and traveling in a moving clump rather that these two straight lines. Second, there would be a lot more laughing. Not these fake chuckles over lame puns, or corny running jokes. No, instead we would be taking shots at each other, making fun of who runs like a duck, who's tights are a bit too tight, and who is a p*ssy for not being able to keep up with the rest of the blob. We would be talking about bad children, good for nothing husbands, the latest scandal in the community, and above all, what we were going to eat after this run!

As I'm imagining this group being transformed into a louder, livelier, and more tan bunch, I realize that I am a whole lot more brown than I ever gave myself credit for. I guess I just have never been in a situation where I have ever felt like a 'minority'. Whats funny, is that anywhere else I lived, i was so quick to sweep my heritage under the rug, because pretty much everyone around me had some exposure to Latinos, and a few of them were brown themselves. Living in Portland, this is not the case. People have little to no exposure to us brownies. Immigrants here are mainly Russian, and Vietnamese.... I guess they can handle to cold a little better than what we 'South of the Border' types can.
So to sum it all up, I guess I can appreciated the tones of brown that run through my veins. Being the outsider in a dominant society has not only forced me to acknowledge that I do have a sense of belonging to 'my people', but has also made me realize that I can no longer neglect that. So long as I plan on traveling and exposing myself to new cultures and ways of life, I must also be able to present myself in the holistic way that I am Latina, and that I do not just identify with the 'white side' of life. I should take more advantage of mt heritage and love it for all that it is, and for all of the differences that it has with my new found home.

closing thoughts on the eve of a final.....

final exam tomorrow.. Public Policy. Im not ready. I know what I know, and its not nearly as much as I should. Im not worried though, I mean, I know I'll pass the course, but I just have no motivation to try and blow it out of the water. I feel like my Portland State academic endeavors are not as ambitous as they should be, due to the fact that even if I manage to pull out a 4.0 gpa from here on out, I still can't graduate with honors. (Says the PSU law of the land that mandates it so for transfer students) This gives me no incentive to be any more than just passing or mediocre. Grr.. why do I let those complacent thoughts take over my mind? I mean, is it that bad to not be bothered by the fact that my transcripts will reflect straight A's from my community college in Texas, and the Portland grades will add a splash of B's and dare I say C's? Grrr again. Where is my motivation? Why am I not compelled to be a top notch student? Maybe deep down I am rationalizing this with the idea that George W. Bush went to an ivy league school, pulled in average grades and attained the highest job in all of the land. Hell, if its good enough for Dubya... its good enough for me. Good night winter quarter... hopefull I can pick up some inspiration for the spring during my week off.

My life is like an episode of Sex in the City...

...well almost, except for the fact that I don't own any Jimmy Choo stilletoes, I do not have wildly successful gal pals that I sip martinis with, and Im sure as hell not scoring with any sexy businessmen or even any hunky carpenters. So I guess its not exactly like Carrie Bradshaw's fabulous New York life, filled with wild trysts and high fashion, but my Portland version does parallel the universal fact that rings true in both worlds: Being a single girl in a big city is a pain in the ass.
Now, im not the kind of gal that is on the hunt for Mr. Right. I've never been one to daydream about a big white dress or an expensive ring... hell im not even sure what a princess cut even looks like. But, I am the kind of gal that does like a little attention. I mean who doesn't like to feel like that are attractive or interesting? And so it is that I have thrown myself into singles vortex of 'dating'. Let me tell you, this world is not pretty. It fits every cliche that you see on tv. The situation goes something like this: Boy meets girl, they chat, boy tries to impress girl with empty conversation about how well educated he is, how he loves art and conversation, he orders two more drinks, continues to talk about his muscles and foreign film, a few more drinks come, he tries to put his hand on her leg..... ick. The situation can end one of two ways. The girl eats all of this bullshit up, goes home with him, screws him and thinks she has a boyfriend. Or, in my case, the second the hand goes on the leg, the claws come out. My mouth starts to run and I verbally castrate the poor fellow. The encounter is over, I might thank him for the drinks, flee the scene, and vow that I will never do that again. But the truth is, I do it again. I do it over and over hoping that the next time something will actually stick. I have even crafted a complete method to my dating madness. Little does any man know it, the odds are always stacked against him. I come equipped with a mental clipboard that judges the prospective suitor more harshly than American Idol. Tennis shoes with jeans? Automatic 10 point deduction. Mention of a fraternity or use of the word 'bro'..... straight to the douchebag category. Like mechanics at the garage, I can always find something wrong during an inspection. And as for me, Im even worse. I go into every situation as if im playing a part in an Academy Award worthy film. I have, if you will, a "Sarah-like character" that I slip into before each date. I have perfected my life's story, leaving out the boring details and getting straight to what they want to hear. "blah blah, like to travel, love wine, blah blah, no kids...." To keep the mood light, I try my best to be funny. Like a stand -up comedian, I have my jokes perfectly times and tailored to any man's personality because let's face it, they're pretty much all the same. This mechanized approach to dating has allowed me to be charming when I need to be, make them feel manly when they need that stroke of the ego (the only stroke they are getting from me) and has overall made dating a total waste of my time.
So why do I continue to do it? Why do I go out with the Jewish boy who can't run a mile or pay for my shitty clam chowder? Why is it that the boy who is eager to give me the world will never be able to because I have a problem with his nostrils? And how come when I say that im not interested, it becomes lost in man-translation? I say im not looking for a relationship, and he takes it as, a "im not looking for a relationship right now, but if you really bug me enough I'll cave or at least sleep with you".
Oh the frustration. Oh the wasted time on hair and make-up, the forced smiles, and the awkward, "it was nice meeting you... now get out of my face" goodbyes. Yes, it all sucks but I guess its just the nature of the beast that our society has created as an alternative to arranged marriages, or getting hitched to your high school sweetheart or rushing to the aisle before the bun in the oven arrives. So like Sarah Jessica Parker and the other broads in that glamorous show, I will continue take my fishing pole out to that giant sea, continue to reel them in and throw them back ...one lackluster date at a time.

While Im still riding high on inspiration....

I find its best if I write things down so that I actually commit to them. Since im still riding high from my last race, and am now inspired by a women that I met that runs a 1:12:43 half-marathon, I am now more than ever determined to get faster. So here is the tentative Schedule of races:

March 15th- Shamrock Run 15K
March 29th-Ft Vancouver 10k
April 5th - Race for the Roses 5k
April 11th- Pear Blossom Run 10m
April 19th- Bridge to Brews 10k
April 26th- Run for the Cheetah 8k
May3rd- Cinco de Mayo 10k
May 9th- Hippie Chick Half Marathon
May 30th- Starlight Run 5k

And so there it is... I'll be running my ass of for the rest of the spring! Im definitely going to need some new running shoes.

Feeling good, looking... so-so.

This week has been an amazing week in running for me. I've put on my fancy cold weather gear, and headed out nearly ever night this week and have completed routes that have ranged from 5-7 miles. I've kept up with pace groups of cocky middle aged men, and have shown them that this gal, although not an 'athlete' so to speak, can hold her own when it comes down to hitting the pavement. Thursday was a great day as well. I ran six miles with the lone guy in an all girls running/yoga class, and was for the first time in my life called, 'fast'. So with all of this, I'm feeling good and carrying a head so large I can barely fit through the doorway. My insides tell me I'm an iron woman, but my outsides, well, they remind me that there are jiggles here and there that continue to make me look, well, less than the lean mean runner my sneakers tell me that I am.
Feeling this way leads me to the unavoidable fact: I am unhappy with my body. There, I said it. It seems that no matter how healthy I eat, and regardless of the many miles I run, I will never look like a Victorias Secret model. I hate the fact that I no matter how many crunches I do, my belly still has plenty to pinch. I hate that I can do leg presses till my legs feel like they are crumble, yet they will always resemble those of a flamingo. I hate that my butt goes from super flat, to kinda flat, and never comes close to resembling two canteloupes wrapped in a pair of chonies, regardless of the number of reverse ass blasters from Women's Health Magazine I do at the gym. With all of these disappointments, its a mystery why I even continue to dedicate so much time to working out and eating right at all.
I guess the reason why I torture myself with diet and exercise is due not to the fact that I am a woman and am genetically programmed to see a fat girl in the mirror, no, it is due to the fact that I am a former fat kid who hasn't fully come into her adult mindset. I am haunted by fears of going back to the plus sizes of the little girls department. After years of always being bigger than girls my same age, and being told over the years that it looks like I was 'finally losing my baby fat', its no wonder that I am a little concerned that I will be overweight once again.
This may seem like an irrational and silly way to look at myself because in reality, I know that I am not fat. In fact I fall within the range of what Shape Magazine says is the ideal weight for a woman of 5'7. But even though the magazine says I'm at a healthy weight, this obsessive gal doesn't want to be healthy, she wants to be skinny, and in order to be skinny, Ive still gotta drop a few more pounds. And so continues the never ending cycle. I joke that I'm a lot like Oprah, sometimes I'm skinny, sometimes I'm fat.... and if I'm really good, I'm super skinny, and the same holds true if I'm really bad, then I'm super fat. Ugh, curses to those who have awesome metabolism or that can endure an eating disorder, lucky bitches. I eat pizza twice a week, and the scale tells me I've gained two pounds. I'm engaged in a battle with my body that feels like I am born to lose.
But lets not get too concerned here. This blog is not a cry out for a body image intervention. In fact, the purpose is more so to proclaim that the inner fat kid in me is growing up. In the past week, I've impressed myself and others with the running skills that I almost never knew were there. Even though my body may not be as tiny Victoria Beckham's or Eva Longoria's, I am comforted by the fact that I could probably easily run a 10K with those bitches strapped to my back. I love the fact that I feel good. I love that my body feels like its being pushed to what I thought were the limits and sometimes even beyond. Slowly, I am coming around to wanting to become a picture of health, rather than a picture of Karen Carpenter. I am focused on improving my body in ways that will allow me to feel comfortable with calling myself a full fledged runner. With every run that I complete, I am becoming faster and stronger. My lungs feel like they have the holding capacity of air balloons, and as for those stick like legs of mine, well, lets just say, they are becoming a pretty damn solid after an hour out on the trails. Now, if you would excuse me, I just burned about 1,000 calories during a 10 mile run this morning, I think I'm going to get a goddamn slice of pizza, I've earned it.