Freedom Isn't Free

"I'm not a hyphenated anything!" fumed my father-in-law. "I'm not a Mexican-American, I'm an American." The ardor with which he spoke these words made me wonder what was bringing on the sudden outburst. It surprised me, since my in-laws have for years taken a keen interest in their heritage which has revealed Mexican, Spanish and Apache ancestry. Maybe it had something to do with the t-shirt I noticed my father-in-law wearing a few days ago. It had the words "Freedom Is Not Free" written in small letters over his chest.

My father-in-law is a decorated Korean War veteran. He's an interesting man, smart, opinionated and with a dark side that he's managed to compartmentalize over time. Some of the most memorable conversations I've had with him concerned the nature of evil and questions of identity.

"Everyone's from somewhere," my mother-in-law chimes in.

"That's right, you don't hear of English-Americans or Greek-Americans," my suegro continues.

"I've heard of them," I'm tempted to say but decide that just this once I'll listen instead of talk.

Deep down, I already know what they're saying. Why do we qualify the word American with information about our heritage? Why don't I say I'm Vegetarian-American, or I'm Feminist-American? Those are bits of information about me that say something about who I am too. Hmmm, maybe he's got a point there.

What purpose does it serve to hyphenate our nationality? I don't know. I mean, doesn't it make it easier for people to make assumptions about us, perhaps even stereotype us? I recall an episode from my high school days when I was asked to paint a mural at school. I was excited at first and dreamed up a surreal image from my fevered imagination but I came crashing back to earth when I was told what I could paint - an Aztec pyramid with a eagle perched on a cactus in the foreground, something that would "be meaningful for the Mexican-American students." I couldn't figure it out. If anyone was Mexican-American, I certainly fit the bill but I didn't limit myself to the iconography of past generations.

I've been calling myself a Chicana for a many years now and before that I was Mexican-American, briefly Hispanic and for just a split second, Latina. When I lived in Los Angeles, if someone asked, I would say I was a Chicana and I felt pretty confident that the person knew what that meant, but maybe I was assuming too much.

Let me define my terms. I think of Chicanas/Chicanos as US born individuals who, although born and raised in the United States, retain an awareness of our Mexican heritage and find strength and hopefully wisdom in the balancing of our dual cultures, creating a powerful hybrid identity. People who define themselves as Chicana or Chicano oppose assimilating the values of the dominant culture and make a conscious decision to retain our duality and allow it to guide our personal and political decisions. Well, that's what it means to me anyway - I wouldn't mind if people assumed all those things about me when I say I'm a Chicana.

Here in Phoenix, it's different. First of all nobody ever asks, they're too darn polite, but there's also the fact that in Phoenix I have...let me see...one...two...make that zero Chicano friends. I don't know very much about my friends' cultural backgrounds, but with names like Wass, Forsythe, Budzak, Peters and Mar I have a feeling they're not Chicanas. I don't even know if they know that I'm Chicana or what one is (unless they're reading this right now) but it just doesn't seem to matter. To them I am the crafter, the (hyphenated) dog-walker, the mom. They relate to the part of me that gels with the part of them which we have in common.

So when does nationality matter? I suppose it matters most when you're fighting a war or defending whatever you see as patriotic values (Freedom Isn't Free). I think my father-in-law probably fights that war every single day of his life.

The Friends In My Bed

It's 5 am and I should be enjoying my last half hour of sleep but my body has other plans and I wake up sneezing. I think of getting up and going into the kitchen to bake some biscuits but I'm too lazy. The bed is warm and comfy, and it's still dark out.

I turn on my bedside lamp and reach over, feeling around on the bedspread. Scattered on the side of my bed where my husband used to sleep are my new companions, my faithful books. They keep me company, entertain me, instruct me and inspire me.

Let me introduce you to my friends. Today's pile includes a vintage cookbook that I scored for 99 cents at the Goodwill, bearing the lofty title Favorite Recipes of America - Vegetables. The garish colors of some of the dishes are almost repulsive, for some reason I think this is cool. I'm planning a vegetarian meal from this book where the bell peppers are the color of radiator fluid and the carrots remind me of a highlighter marker. I only hope my meal looks as vivid.

The cover of the little comic book next to it is just as loud. It's the Mahabharata, the great Sanskrit epic, Indian literature bastardized for my amusement. On the cover, Arjuna the skillful archer kneels before a hot looking Lord Krishna. The blue in Krishna's skin set against the gold in his outfit really pops. My husband and daughter bought the comic book for me when they saw me looking at it in the store. As much as I love comics, I can't recommend that you read the Mahabharata this way, mostly it reminds me that my family loves me.

I have three other gifts on my bed. Eat, Pray, Love, which my friend Angie gave me; Bend the Rules With Fabric, a present from Santy Claus and a copy of Everyday Food (thanks for my subscription, DW). I pick up Eat, Pray, Love and read a few pages. It's a memoir and the writer is at a soccer game in Italy. She decides to translate the cursing and ranting of an old man who's sitting behind her. It sounds dull but it's pretty funny. The expression "What a Casino!" (what a mess) cracks me up. Why is translated cursing funny and not shocking or insulting? The laughing wakes me up. I decide to stop procrastinating and get out of bed.

I walk into the kitchen ready to start breakfast when it occurs to me that I've stopped sneezing. I walk back into my bedroom and look at the bookshelves. A layer of dust is plainly visible. Guess I know what I'll be doing today. It just proves that every friendship needs a little work sometimes.

Now, what's for breakfast?

Women In LA Punk - Heather Ferguson

I first met Valiant in the late '70s, when she still went by the name of Heather. She was a creature of the night who dressed like a punk rock Coco Chanel. She had a film noir air of glamour which she cultivated with fascinators and cigarette holders. Her sense of style was so strong that I instantly trusted her when she invited me to sit in her salon chair.

Heather was just as comfortable in the Beverly Hills salon where she sometimes cut my hair as she was in her little apartment in Hollywood. We'd sip wine or tea while she chopped, colored and transformed my DIY locks into a cutting edge 'do. Sometimes we'd dress up and go out after my makeover, other times we'd grab a cheap bottle of wine at La Brea Circus and talk the night away sitting on her couch. In those days, Heather loved Sylvia Plath, romance, and red wine with nice labels. In fact, it was Heather who gave me my first lessons on selecting wine. First rule: look for a bottle with a cork instead of a screw top. I was still buying wine like a kid cutting class in high school, what did I know?

Click on the Women In L.A. Punk thumbnail to read her interview.

Guadalajaratrippin' Pt 2. Vexing in Mexico

Angie and I slept like the dead in our room at the Hotel De Mendoza, located on the site of a former convent in Guadalajara’s Centro Historico. We made our way down to the hotel restaurant and feasted on their breakfast buffet which offered a mouthwatering spread ranging from pancakes to chilaquiles. The girls all woke up at different times (Angie and I being the early risers in the group), so we ended up eating and doing our sightseeing in shifts. This was a bit odd because although we would've preferred to go together, we had to settle for "Meet us at the Cathedral after breakfast," or "Meet us at the Museum." Eventually, we split up into small groups which worked out just fine.

My group headed over to the Parque de Agua Azul for a gigantic flea market that my new buddy Shizu Saldamando had told me about the night before. She described it as a "punk flea market" and I think the description was accurate. It wasn't like a big outdoor Hot Topic, it just seemed to have the sorts of things that we all liked: homemade silkscreened shirts, used and repurposed clothing, old comic books and records, handmade jewelry, lots of crafty items. Teresa Covarrubias and Lysa Flores bought beautiful necklaces, Colin Gunckel and I bought vintage comic books. Our friend Danny was turned away from making a purchase because his paper money looked “too thin.” "You look like a counterfeiter!" we laughed. It was such a big market that eventually we did get separated and by the time we finally reunited, it was late. The race was on to get back to the hotel and try to make it to soundcheck on time.

We drove up to the hotel where a mini bus was already waiting for us. We hadn't even paid for the cab before Judy Cocuzza started scolding us for being late (she is the most well-organized and responsible musician I've ever played with.) We ran up to get our stuff for the show, then burned rubber to the museum.

Outside the MUSA, a big stage had been set up for the Vexing performances. G, the head soundmeister, was unperturbed by our late arrival and quickly gave everyone the sound they wanted (thank you!) I was watching The Sirens soundcheck when I noticed the evening clouds had started to roll in, making the church behind the stage loom ominously like Dracula's castle.


Iphone photo by Alice Bag

Teresa, Angie, Patricia and I rushed off to the MUSA bathrooms to get gussied up for the show. I lined, shadowed and polished as best I could to try to make 50 look like 17, but I’m a musician, not a magician. I have to confess that in the restroom mirror I thought I looked pretty hot, unfortunately I couldn't see the bottom half of me and everyone was too nice to tell me that my clothes made me look lumpy. Oh well, I guess it's for the best, I couldn't very well have picked a new outfit from wardrobe.

The show started and The Sirens came out of the gates blazing! They played their hearts out and the audience ate it up. As I watched them, I knew I had to bring my "A" game because these ladies had set a very high standard for the evening’s performances.


Photo by Angie Skull

We were up next. Colin announced us and said lots of nice things. I was pleasantly surprised by the good quality of the monitor mix and pretty soon, Teresa and I were rocking out in tandem just as we had so many times before. Judy Cocuzza and Sharon Needles kept the rhythm solid and PK wailed on guitar. Lysa Flores joined us for Monedita de Oro and Angie Skull joined us for two songs: Modern Day Virgin Sacrifice (she was the sacrifice) and The Wolf. It was great being onstage with so many talented women. The audience was very warm and receptive, there were children and teens and middle aged folks all out for a night of free music and they liked us. At one point during our set, Colin Gunckel dove off the stage and started crowd surfing. It was sweet! We left the crowd wanting more, not to follow any old adage but because we didn't have any songs worked out for an encore.


Photo by Angie Skull

Lysa was up last, looking absolutely gorgeous in her little black ruffly dress. She was the perfect choice to close the evening. Lysa is a rose in full bloom; with her stage presence and musicianship at their peak, she easily made the audience swoon. At the beginning of her set, a mohawk wearing punk guy started to walk away, perhaps underestimating her edge but she won him over with her cover of Love Will Tear us Apart. He stayed next to the stage for the rest of the set, calling for an encore at the end.

The mood backstage after the show was electric. We packed up our stuff and got on the mini bus heading for Hotel De Mendoza, but we couldn't suppress our excitement and pretty soon an impromptu Vexing choir started singing and making up songs. When we ran out of invented songs, we followed up by singing Beatle songs.



Video courtesy of Danny Hound Dog.

After dinner at the hotel we cleaned up and went to the opening of 18 With A Bullet, an exhibit that Shizu Saldamando had invited us to. Shizu's work blows me away. I had seen her work in Vexing, Phantom Sightings and on the cover of the new Girl in a Coma album. Tonight, she was showing ballpoint pen ink drawings made on bed sheets and handkerchiefs. I asked her about the drawings and she made it sound easy, "Oh, I just put something firm underneath and draw while I'm watching TV" ...Genius! Really, she's a mega talent.


GrandStar, China Town, ball point pen on found bedsheet, 178x249 cm Shizu Saldamando.
Photo courtesy of Shizu Saldamando.

The cherry on top of the evening was meeting some of the young punks who had seen our show earlier in the evening. Shizu had met them at the show and invited them to her opening. They brought gifts of CDs, stickers and postcards and thanked us for giving them a taste of 70's punk. It was wonderful to feel like we'd somehow inspired these young artists and I felt truly grateful to have been part of the whole event.