Mother's Day, denim, and leather.

  

Growing up in a musical house really opened me up to new sounds and made me appreciate the work my father does. I grew up listening to everything from classical and opera to Bee Gees and Eric Clapton to quinceanera music. My father always made sure that we had tickets to every big artist that came to the city. Carlos Santana, Rod Steward, Paul McCartney.. I appreciated my father's passion for music, and the great seats we always got to see great artists that I didn't care for. After years of studying the greats and classics, I developed my own taste: Guns n Roses, a bit of Metallica, some early Sheryl Crow. I was obsessed with Janis Joplin and Nina Simone and one of the perks of my father being a musician was the fact that we had recording equipment at home so I would take lyrics from Beatles songs and mix them with music from November Rain and Aerosmith's "crazy". Seeing Liv Tyler dance on a pole for the video really inspired me to create my own dance routines to my Beatles mashups.

It was in the early 90's that a deity exploded onto the scene and along with her my ability to make reasonable choices disappeared. Her name was Alejandra Guzman. For those of us that have been faithful from the beginning she is simply Ale. Ale was a rich girl turned dancer turned singer for no other reason than she was the daughter of one of Mexico's most famous actresses,  and her father was a teen sensation back in the 60's. My grandma still thinks he is hot.

The Guzmans were all kinds of fucked up. The youngest daughter committed suicide by driving her Porsche as fast as it would go straight into a concrete wall. The other sister was a failed actress with a drug problem, and became famous just because she tried but not because of her work. Ale was the crown jewel. She would make the rounds at the cities hottest spots with politician's sons as arm candy and pictures of her doing inexplicable amounts of cocaine were always on the pages of TV notas (the mexi Us Weekly). Clearly it was just a matter of time before she reached icon status in my life. Almost a mentor.

My father did not understand my obsession, but respected it nonetheless. Even when I would try to emulate her drunk poses as she was stumbling out of a club, my family would just look the other way and pretend that it didn't happen. Secretly they were just jealous that I did the poses so well. I learned every song and trained my voice to sound just like she did (which was a mix between rough-night-morning-after and 30 years of smoking cigs....possibly crack) In other words, I was ready to go to one of her concerts and showcase my hard work and commitment.  As odd as it may sound, picking a cocaine addict party girl as a role model was one of the healthiest things I had done in a while and my father supported this by getting some much sought after Ale tickets. As soon as I got them in my hand I knew exactly who I was going to take with me. I ran straight to my room and rummaged through my sterling silver cigar box (a gift to my dad from one of his clients) where I kept trinkets and letters and early teen shit. There it was, a postcard I had received from my mother weeks before "Greetings from Richmond!" it read. I still do not know what my mother was doing in Virginia and out of respect I never asked. Her new number in the city was on it, no address however (I wonder where I get my fear of commitment and closed off nature from).

Mom, I have tickets to see Alejandra!! please come with me. "Okay, I will pick you up but I don't want to come in, just come out when I get there". What to wear? what to wear?!! Duh, acid wash denim with a rip right under the right ass cheek, black steel toe boots, white t-shirt, lots of bracelets. Its all in the accessories.

The concert was amazing. I had been to many concerts but this was the first time I was seeing someone I actually liked, and she did not disappoint. Most importantly, I saw a side of my mother I have not seen in a long time. During one of the slow sets, Ale sang a song she wrote while she was pregnant with her daughter (whom also tried to commit suicide a few years ago. She went to rehab and now lives in Miami). In the song, she sings about how she wondered what color her eyes would be and what her voice would sound like. Right there in the middle of the song, standing in a crowd of thousands, my mother began to cry. She hugged me and told me she loved me. She also apologized for not knowing all the songs but reassured me that she would sing if she knew the lyrics. I hugged her back and I said "today is Mother's day. I didn't forget".

And there in the middle of Auditorio Nacional, a coke head with a raspy voice dressed head to toe in leather brought my mother and I back together.

Happy mother's day, Mamma Cortes.

Hood dreams and expensive shoes.

Dreams do not always come true, that does not by any means imply that I would not try to make them happen.

It was during one of my Mother's trial separations- and by that I mean, from the whole family. We didn't see her for over a year- that I found myself living with my grandparents. Living with them was always a good time, I was the oldest of the grandchildren and the most troubled and I certainly took advantage of that. Anything I wanted, whenever I wanted it. My grandma was always willing to put up with my ridiculous requests. Weather out of love or pity, since I often found myself parent-less.

My grandma was an accountant and worked basically all day. My grandpa was in sales and his job required extensive travel so we only saw him for a week out of the month. My two uncles were still young and lived at home, but they were certified man sluts and often spent the nigh with random girls, smoking Marlboro reds. So needless to say I had plenty of alone time. This lack of parental supervision or parents at all, gave me ample TV time.

I remember it clearly and unmistakeably accurate. During one of my Saturday viewings I came across a show that unknowingly would change the course of my life as I knew it. Mi Barrio! translation: My hood! This Saturday afternoon extravaganza was able to incorporate every aspect of a life I never knew I wanted. This show was basically a block party that a well known Mexican network would put on every week. Each week they would go to a different run down, gritty, real Mexi hood; they would bring musicians and TV personalities and close down a few blocks, brought food and drink and the whole thing was like a quinceanera on steroids. I had finally found the missing piece in my life. 

To this day I do not know why I am drawn to the tackiness of it all. I figured the Mexican half is well rooted in me. Every week I would watch in awe and stare at the television. The dancing, the tacky music and outfits, the people, the garbage, the run down streets and laundry hanging on roof tops and windows. These were things that lured me. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be on television dancing and laughing as I stuffed taquitos in my mouth and drink horchata. I wanted to sing along with Los Bukis and wear bright colored mismatching garments bought at the public market, hopefully second hand. I had to come up with a plan. If I wanted to be hood I would have to move and if I have learned anything from my Mother is how to be resourceful so I called my dad. My dad's parents lived in a very different area than my mother's parents, the neighborhood was community oriented, local merchants and flea markets, a little trash here and there, cholas and beat up cars. oh, and a church right across the street. I was never more certain that this was Mi Barrio.

In order to be hood I had a few things to learn and my plan was flawless. I took some of my NOT hard earned money and went down to the subway station, which was only 2 blocks from my grandma's walk up. I purchased boot leg cassette tapes from "my" local vendor Manuel (he always had the latest and Sundays were 2 for $5 pesos day). If I wanted to be authentic I would have to learn the lyrics to a whole new genre of music and bands that were not allowed at home (except on Mi Barrio Saturdays, which my grandma detested). I really trained hard and in no time I knew all the lyrics to Los Temerarios, Los Tigres del norte, Los Bukis, etc. If it was barrio and had a beat, I knew it. The next step was to tell my grandma that I wanted to move to my paternal grandparents home. When I asked, she fearfully asked why. All I said was: "I want to be on Mi Barrio!" She was mortified. This is the woman who would never eat food that cannot be eaten with utensils. This was the woman who would never drink nor smoke because its not lady like. This was the woman who taught me table manners, such as how to place your utensils at a restaurant in order to show weather you enjoyed your meal or not. I had fallen from Italian heaven and blue blood status, I could tell by the look in her eyes all she could see was my head stone and it read something like this: "Here lyes Joel whom refused the Cortes throne and became hood".

I moved in with my other grandparents in hopes to become hood royalty. Having given up the Cortes status and the beautiful palm tree lined streets where horchata would never be served, I became the mere  embodiment of mi barrio. I went to the flea market on the weekends and bought my new second hand wardrobe. Everything I had had been previously owned and possibly urinated on by someone who I would never meet nor wanted to. I became a regular at the corner store where the owner gave me a nick name which I actually do not remember and changed schools, a bonafied hood school with graffiti on the walls. My dream was becoming a reality, all I needed was for Mi Barrio to answer the letters that I had sent. In each one I would describe how authentic my barrio was. I would talk about my cousin's qunceanera and how she was actually pregnant already when it took place. I would talk about the stray dogs roaming around the streets, and the homeless dudes that would drink everclear and pass out on the church steps. I would describe in detail what I would wear to the taping (just in case they had their own stylist, I wanted them to know what I had available). 

Sadly, Mi Barrio never replied. I was devastated for weeks, I had put in so much work into it and all I had left were second hand clothes and a full repertoire of tacky songs that I memorized. I expressed my disappointment to my aunt Ana as she was the only constant in my life. Ana was the youngest daughter and therefore the caretaker to my grandparents until death. She lived at the house as well, and upon experiencing my devastation over Mi Barrio she took action. She always detested my "hood" ensembles so she took me shopping. After a whole day of extravagance, the only thing I remember is the beautiful blue suede pumps she got at Gucci. On our way home as we walked from the metro station to the house we stopped right at the end of the block, she looked at me and said "We may be in the hood, but child, we are expensive".

Blue suede never looked better.