Xingaderas

Walking around these streets is uncomfortable sometimes. People are constantly judging, or at least I feel like they are. I've walked in to stores and having a gringo follow me around the store because he thought I would shop lift, or something. What's up with gringos thinking every other person of color is a thief or a threat? Is it the scars I wear everyday. My gunshot scar. Who are you to judge me by the scars I wear? That night was a blur. I walked to the corner store with Julio, my neighbor, to get some chips so that we could watch the Giants game. Next thing you know some fool came out of the store running, dropping his 6-pack of beers and the store owner follows him with his shot gun. A black Beemer drives by and the man jumps in the car through the window. The store owner shoots his shotgun at the Beemer. The men in the Beemer start shooting their Uzi's toward the store. Julio and I drop to the floor quickly and cover our heads. I got this burning pain on my leg.  I started to yell. The pain was unbearable! All I could hear was the windows breaking, the guns firing, and the Beemer taking off. I managed to look up after the Beemer took off. Julio just sat there. I looked around in shock. Glass and blood covered the sidewalks. Julio's shirt was covered in blood. The store owner was laid out flat on the sidewalk creating a puddle of blood. I shut my eyes but the burning pain wouldn't go away. The pain never goes away.

Conquest

Here, it's all about being an "American." If you're not a guero then you better start learning to be like one. You have to fit in to make it in this country. My conquest is to make it as a Xicana. I'm not going to be a wanna-be guera and sell myself out to be successful. I will be sitting on my desk on the 70th floor of a skyscraper listening to corridos, ballads, and eating my pan dulce. My moms always tells me, "be whoever you want to be, mija," but I don't think she truly believes that I will make it as an artist. My family has struggled for years for their success in this country as the working class. Being an artist almost seems pathetic. Their sweat, blood and tears has made me want to reevaluate my dream in becoming an artist. Makes me think, "Adelita, is being an artist make them happy and proud, or just you."

In traditional Mexican families, talking about feelings and uncertainties is not so trendy. Being Xingona is all about being confident, knowing what you want. I like to believe I know what I want. The lines I create on plain white paper is my imagination coming to life. My sanity and happiness lies on that paper. 

Pan Dulce

I love my pan dulce, Mexican bread. Every week I stop by my favorite spot, Panaderia la Mexicana, to buy my panesitos, bread, to share with my family. Ever since I was a chamaca, a young girl, my Moms and Pops would bring me and my brothers the delicious bread. This panaderia is on 24th and York, in the Mission District. I have never tasted any pan dulce that taste better than this panaderia, except in Mexico. I eat my pan dulce with hot chocolate de la Abuelita (brand name). 

Photo found on Yelp

When I take a bite of the elote, corn-shaped, pan, the sugar that is coated on the bread crumbles on my shirt and sticks to my lips after drinking the warm hot chocolate. The bread is soft and freshly made at 4 AM each morning. My Moms likes to eat her pan with Coca-Cola because it reminds her of her childhood memories in Mexico. My brother and I always fight for the sugary elote shaped pan. He wakes up earlier than I do so he gets first dibs on the pan. This pan is what makes my mornings happy and filling. It makes my nights warm and satisfying. Pan dulce is a part of my cultura, my culture.

 Photo found on Yelp

Xingona

Que onda? What's up? I'm Adela. My family calls me Adelita–ever since I was born, I guess. My mom was hella in to the revolutionaries, Emiliano Zapata and Pancho Villa, from back in the day during la revolucîon mexicana and she named me after the Adelitas, woman who fought in the Mexican Revolution. It's a bad-ass name if you ask me. I refer to myself as a xingona, a bad-ass woman, like the Adelitas but a modern bad-ass. Many people spell chingona with a "c-h" but I spell it with a "x." It is still pronounced the same but the meaning is deeper. The "x" makes a connection with my indigenous ancestry back to los Aztecas, the Aztecs, who used the "x" which is pronounced like the "c-h." Xingona is a lifestyle and xingonerias are surroundings and struggles that create a bad-ass Xicana, a Mexican American. This is who I am. My identity as I know it. This is no blog about sombreros and rancheras, Mexican ballads–not your typical stereotype of Xicanos or Mexicanos. This about a xingona and the xingoneria. Don't get it twisted. 

Photo by: Leticia Arce