I’m learning to be ok with looking in the mirror, with looking at picture of myself.

Taking it as an act of survival, or even an act of rebellion or liberation has really helped.

I’m not quite there yet, but I feel like I’m getting better. I have a bit of a goal to take pictures with friends.

Listen to the full episode here:

I mention it at the top and in the first “Question” I made to Maria Garcia, creator and host of the Juan Gabriel Podcast “My Divo”, I really was conflicted about this podcast existing because of what a giant Juan Ga is. Also, can you tell I have no formal journalistic education by even phrasing that question in the way I did? But, the podcast is great. It’s my favorite of the year and you should listen to it.

Something that we get into in the pochcast episode is how one of the aspects of loving Juan Ga has to do with the fact that he’s from The Border. That’s a big deal, in a very real way people from El Paso/Juarez across a couple of generations have a connection to him. My mom and I are no exception, It was especially apparent to me the day that Juan Ga died.

The day that Juan Ga died, Sunday August 28, 2016 I had the misfortune of being in an Olive Garden in the Dallas Suburbs. I don’t mind a chain restaurant but the Olive Garden has to be one of the worst chains out there. First of all, it’s expensive. These people are charging Five Guys level of money. Secondly, the food isn’t that good? All the pasta is mushy and all the sauce taste the same and it’s all covered up because everyone just covers every plate in about 3 lbs of cheese. Those breadsticks are way too dense. You get the point. I was there Sunday at night, against my will but I was eating the SINCE THEN DISCONTINUED one decent-ish thing on the menu (Braised beef tortellini) when I logged onto Twitter to do some scrolling and my feed was overtaken with news that Juan Gabriel had passed away in Santa Monica, California of an alleged heart attack.

My reaction was more instinctual than anything. I may have gasped. When I looked up from my phone my wife was already looking at me saying “What?” and I just said “Juan Gabriel died” and she just kinda answered something like “Oh no, that’s sad” but instead of answering her I stood up and walked out of the restaurant and dialed my mom. To my surprise she answered within three rings.

” ‘Ama, se murio Juan Gabriel.”
”Ya se Hijo, lo acabo de ver en las noticias.”

”Que hacemos?”

“No se Hijo”

I literally asked, Que Hacemos? I didn’t know what to feel other than a profound sense of loss, to the point that I had to call my mother. I don’t know what I expected her to say but I knew that she would at the very least feel the same way I did. I’m by no means a Juan Gabriel stan but to this day his music is always occasionally played. There’s a dozen or so songs of his in my “Liked” songs on Spotify. References or lines from his songs are common in my memetic language I’ve developed with family. The fact that he would no longer exist and make music was sad.

I went back inside and finished my mid tortellini and spent the evening listening to Juan Ga songs with my wife and telling stories about my life/family tied around them including the Canal 56 “Juarez es el No. 1” spots that really made Juarez seem like a big fun city during my childhood. How I would spam that song (and Return of the Tres) in the Computer Science lab during my college years to the chagrin of all the white nerds in there who would respond with some form of metal. The Kumbia Kings collab with Juanga. How my oldest sister loves “Tus Ojos Mexicanos Lindos” and has loved it since she was a toddler. Of course, the Bellas Artes Concert which we saw almost in it’s entirety but especially the “Hasta Que Te Conoci” Performance. His music has truly had an impact in my life.

There will never be another artist like Juan Gabriel.

Screw The Olive Garden.

Listen to the full episode here:

In this episode of El Pochcast I spend a little under an hour talking with Iván Fernandez about the current state of Mexican Soccer but I think it’s worth going into WHY I care about this team.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this so I’m not gonna belabor it. It really comes down to A major point and a subpoint of that.

Cheering for Mexico’s soccer team is a link to Mexico itself

Being a Pocho, supporting/following the National Team was a very easy way to get some Mexa street cred. Talking about the game and being able to name players and where they played at or drop some fact about em and you’re in. It’s the team of my parents. It’s the only reason why I learned the Mexican National Anthem just incase I ever attend a World Cup game I could scream it loudly. It is Mexican to support Mexico. Simple.

But here’s the biggest one…

Soccer is not an American thing, it’s our thing

Asi nomas.

I KNOW the American Women are the GOATs…but still.

There’s this line in the Rafa Marquez Netflix documentary in which Rafa talks about his disdain for the USMNT and he says something along the lines of

“They’re a superpower and they’re the best at every other sport but not this one, this one is ours”

I feel that in my bones.

For years soccer was ignored here, relegated to the “Weird foreign sport”. The Gabachos who DID care about soccer were weirdo gingers with beards and long hair. Everyone knew it too.

Soccer is ours. Not theirs.

The Big Green, Disney’s children soccer movie. Made the BEST player in the team a Mexican kid from El Paso. It’s ours.

In fact growing up (and even now) El Paso Texas was not a powerhouse in any sport at the state level except for Soccer. Schools from Dallas and Austin feared El Paso schools. There’s been multiple state champions. It’s ours.

Every effort to make it theirs is lame. I had an encounter with it later.

Like a lot of Mexican kids I played organized soccer growing up. It was some league, we’d play on Saturdays and it was all Mexican kids. At one particular game this white guy showed up, watched us play, and during the game approached the lady who ran our team, her name was Rosario. After the game she told my friend Manny, who was the best kid on the team, and me if we’d be interested in attending some info session for his AYSO team.

AYSO is officially a part of the US Soccer system and this dude immediately looked like a douche. This man had on a visor like if he was a football coach at Oklahoma State. He gave us some crappy duffel bag to mark our “invitation” and left.

I didn’t go.

A couple of weeks later dude called my house, my mom not speaking English very well answered the phone and asked for clarification wether he wanted to speak to me or my dad and my mom handed me the phone looking puzzled and stood close enough that she could hear what was being said to me.

”Why didn’t you show up?”
”I don’t know.”

The guy then went on to say there was another camp coming up and that I should go and he’d make a space for me. I said no, and then he said to just come and take a look, I don’t have to do anything else beside look. Hung up, and my mom said that it wouldn’t hurt to go look. No commitment.

The camp was in Bowie highschool, right after school at like 4pm. My mom drives me there and I get down to see a bunch of kids in cleats running up and down doing some stupid drill with those dorky little cones. Visor boy blows a whistle and signals me over, I walk over and he says “Where’s your fucking gear?” I had no idea what he’s talking about but right away didn’t like that this doofus was cussing at me. I didn’t have soccer “gear” I just wore whatever shorts and shirt and cleats I had. Furthermore I wasn’t even coming for anything just to watch. "Suit up and get out there” I told him I didn’t bring anything and he just looked at me with a stupid face. I don’t remember exactly what he said after but it was along the lines of “Didn’t you read the letter?”

At this point my mom stepped in and said “Vamonos mijo”

When I got home I found the stupid duffel bag and inside it was a sheet of paper listing some “equipment” required for the camp. It included multiple shorts, shirts, socks, tape, and stupid little cones. I’d never used these in any game before. The hell kinda crap is this.

And that was the last time I interacted with anything related to US Soccer.
Buncha dorks, with their cheap ass duffels. Running around orange nipples in the grass. Playing stupid, soulless soccer. No one on that field was laughing or having a good time. No one looked cool. Dude was wearing a visor. Now they’re rocking scarves.

American soccer is swagless. Their coolest player of all time is from Nacogdoches. Their best player of all time was bald at 20. They played in denim at one point. The players can’t beat the allegations of not being good enough at Basketball or Football. The only thing dorkier than them is the 2nd division english teams they go to play for because there’s no language barrier to cross the sea, Sheffield Wednesday NO SEAS MAMON. American soccer is a safe sport for rich kids who grew being handed duffel bags with a list of materials required to be able to play.

A couple of years after the encounter with Visor guy, Mexico was eliminated from the 2002 World Cup by the dorks of the USMNT. I cried in front of my dad as we watched the game. I was so angry, I hated them. Visor dork was on my mind when Rafa Marquez, in a fit of rage, head butted Cobi Jones in the jaw. Dirty. Dangerous. Reckless. Stupid. But it’s what I wanted to do to Visor guy who embarrassed me and made me feel so little with his stupid duffel bag. I’ll always love Rafa Marquez for that.

I don’t think Mexico will win a world cup.
I think the USMNT is better now. Probably will continue being better.

The worst part is? There’s been a number of high profile El Paso players who have chosen USMNT over Mexico….

But even then I will never support them. Dorks.

It’s our thing.

Listen to the full episode here:

“the past, like the border, is its own country.”

I’ve spent the vast majority of my adult life trying to understand the place I’m from. At time though it has felt like I’ve become a one trick pony, as if the only thing I can think about is the border, there’s a certain guilt that comes with it at least for me. I always felt like the Border was a different place, like the place where I would truly only belong was there, about 15 miles from the border on either side, San Diego is 17 miles which is what explains how it doesn’t quite feel borderish. Feels Las Cruces-ish. The Border is definitely its own country. I’m from there, and once I was removed from there I can’t help but feel the difference everywhere else I go.

Gabriel Dozal’s collection “The Border Simulator” to me feels like an attempt to capture what it’s like to be from/live at/grow up in the border. Especially when one is not there. It’s at times disorienting, and mixed up, there’s tension and contradiction and oxymoron and laughter and anger. The collection offers a view of the border from a native that understands simple things like how Raza built the fence, and how not everyone that crosses the border wants to stay.

The real messed up part is that if it wasn’t for that random demarcation, that forcing of the river into concrete banks to follow a made up line I wouldn’t have all these questions. I also wouldn’t have this identity of place. I’d feel a lot less “Ni de here, ni de there” and I can’t even imagine what that guy looks like. Probably an edgar cut, or maybe really into hiking? A Barbecue guy? I don’t even know. So much of my identity is tied to being from there because I really truly believe that no one except the people who are from there understand it. Even when I’ve spent years thinking about and trying to communicate the differences, the beauty, the ugly, the wonder, and total dullness of being from two places at once it never feels like I’ve satisfactorily conveyed it. Not even close.
I appreciate Gabe’s effort to do so in his work. Which is why I spoke to him.

As usual, The Simpsons said it best:

That’s not the actual line…but you get the point.

Poetry is wild. Sneaky. Gets in there. I’m gonna read more.

LISTEN TO THE EPISODE HERE: