Gringo Quotes

Yo no soy mexicano. Yo no soy gringo. Yo no soy chicano. No soy gringo en USA y mexicano en Mexico. Soy chicano en todas partes. No tengo que asimilarme a nada. Tengo mi propia historia.

The enemy of the black is not the white. The enemy of capitalist is not communist, the enemy of homosexual is not heterosexual, the enemy of Jew is not Arab, the enemy of youth is not the old, the enemy of hip is not redneck, the enemy of Chicano is not gringo and the enemy of women is not men. We all have the same enemy. The enemy is the tyranny of the dull mind. The enemy is every expert who practices technocratic manipulation, the enemy is every proponent of standardization and the enemy is every victim who is so dull and lazy and weak as to allow himself to be manipulated and standardized.

I don't think that God says, "Go to church and pray all day and everything will be fine." No. For me God says, "Go out and make the changes that need to be made, and I'll be there to help you.

Good-bye -- if you hear of my being stood up against a stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease or falling down the cellar stairs.

Look at the mess we've got ourselves into,' Colonel Aureliano Buendia said at that time, 'just because we invited a gringo to eat some bananas.

Ya lo verán, decía, se volverán a repartir todo entre los curas, los gringos y los ricos, y nada para los pobres... porque éstos estarán siempre tan jodidos que el día en que la mierda tenga algún valor los pobres nacerán sin culo".

Si malo es el gringo que nos compra, peor es el criollo que nos vende.

Did you know we know we are all the object of another's imagination?

There is no way I am masturbating with a gringo to something as vile and disgusting as worm-rape!

Good-bye — if you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico — ah, that is euthanasia.

...you'll see, he said, they'll go back to dividing everything up among the priests, the gringos and the rich, and nothing for the poor, naturally, because they've always been so fucked up that the day that shit is worth money, poor people will be born without an asshole...

And the frontier in here?" the North American woman had asked, tapping her forehead. "And the frontier in hear?" General Arroyo had responded, touching his heart. "There's one frontier we only dare to cross at night," the old gringo said. "The frontier of our differences with others, of our battles with ourselves.

The church wanted us to give out food to malnourished children, but they didn't want us to question why they were malnourished to begin with.

Sup, man,” said Rico Vega, joining me in the back of Spanish class. “’Sup,” I answered. “How can they let you take Spanish when that’s what you speak half the damn time?” “Why they let a bunch of gueros take English? You gringos gotta be stupid if you ain’t got it down in eighteen years.

What is the strongest pretext for loving?...If it is necessary, our atomized consciousness invents love, imagines it or feigns it, but does not live without it, since in the midst of infinite dispersion, love, even if as a pretext , gives us the measure of our loss.

You have fallen badly, señor gringo. Bribery is a very serious crime in this country. You will have to pay.

as everybody in the Andes knows, when the devil comes to work his evil on earth he sometimes takes the shape of a limping gringo stranger. And

Gringos invented two terms that are untranslatable into most languages: “snack” and “quickie,” to refer to eating standing up and loving on the run . . . that, too, sometimes standing up.

How can they let you take Spanish when that’s what you speak half the damn time?” “Why they let a bunch of gueros take English? You gringos gotta be stupid if you ain’t got it down in eighteen years.

Nobody in this band was a musician when they joined up, but everybody was in some kind of trouble. Play con entusiasmo, as loudly as you can, and trust the good will and bad ear of the gringo hellraiser.

But if you sit around thinking what to do and end up not doing anything, why bother even thinking about it? You're better off going out on the town and having a good time. No, we have to think and act. That's what we're doing here, and that's what you have to do.

The North Americans' sense of time is very special. They are short on patience. Everything must be quick, including food and sex, which the rest of the world treats ceremoniously. Gringos invented two terms that are untranslatable into most languages: “snack” and “quickie,” to refer to eating standing up and loving on the run . . . that, too, sometimes standing up. The most popular books are manuals: how to become a millionaire in ten easy lessons, how to lose fifteen pounds a week, how to recover from your divorce, and so on. People always go around looking for shortcuts, and ways to escape anything they consider unpleasant: ugliness, old age, weight, illness, poverty, and failure in any of its aspects.

You put things off and then one morning you wake up and say—today I will change the oil in my truck.

Mexico, as it was in the 1970s—and isn’t now—was my Paris. With Mexicans, Europeans, and Americans I celebrated life and the journey, which took on qualities of a pilgrimage in which every moment was a movable feast and every place was a shrine. Among the intricately carved ruins in the jungle at Palenque, I partook of the Mayan sacrament, the sacred psilocybin mushroom, and there I learned to see.

But what have Cortes and Pizarro or the others to do with me? You carry them in your blood as I carry the blood of Montezume; expeditions of them are harbored by your heart and your mind carries their supply trains. You've changed your helmet for a frontier hat while I have changed my robes for overalls and a black leather jacket. The costumes may have changed but the blood is still the same, gringo.

The Coroner's Office didn't look any different from the rest of Cozumel. It was colorful in that Spanish flavor; an orange-brown background trimmed in soft yellow only slightly brighter than pastel. Palm trees kissed each corner. It was set back from the thoroughfare some distance and well-manicured shrubbery lined the long brick walkway leading to the entrance. Massive Ceiba trees -- ironically, the Mayan tree of life -- shielded curious tourists from reality. The sight of dead people was not compatible to festivity, nor would it encourage vacationing gringos to spend often and unwisely.

My parents would say something to me and I would feel embraced by the sounds of their words. Those sounds said: I am speaking with ease in Spanish. I am addressing you in words I never use with los gringos. I recognize you as someone special, close, like no one outside. You belong with us. In the family.

You're afraid of smart women, aren't you?' She had used this ploy before, having heard via the female bush telegraph that it was unanswerable. She was right though. I was leery of them. Art and Mike said taking an intellectual woman into your home was like taking in a baby raccoon. They were both amusing for a while but soon became randomly vicious and learned how to open the refrigerator.

They jabbered amongst themselves in a bizarre jibberish that sounded like Spanish gone wrong: maybe gringo Spanglish, some kind of Espanahuatl that I hadn’t decoded yet, or a dialect of Spanmayan, Zapotecnish, Spanotomi, Mixtecnish, or some other new native language; or Japanish, Spanorean or…I’m getting carried away. You need a talent for picking up new words and grammars these days-it’s become an obsession with me, someday I’ll probably write a book about it, but in what language?

Stumblingblocks? If you are facing one right now, be grateful for two reasons. It landed in front of you not on top of you. And now you have something to climb on top of so that you can see farther than you ever could before. Live large my friends, live deliberately.

The experience taught him [Salvador Allende] too late that a system cannot be changed from the government but from the power.

Being a facetious person I got no credit for any depth of feeling.

I heard him only encourage my brother to date Mexican girls. They would be so grateful to go out with a gringo.

The good gringo asked Lupe if she forgave him for sleeping with her mother. “Yes,” Lupe said, “but we can’t ever get married.

Era gringa, los gringos son así. No saben nada del mundo, son incapaces de enterarse. No se les ocurre mirar un mapa.

my parents are Mexican who are not to be confused with Mexican Americans or Chicanos. i am a Chicano from Chicago which means i am a Mexican American with a fancy college degree & a few tattoos. my parents are Mexican who are not to be confused with Mexicans still living in México. those Mexicans call themselves mexicanos. white folks at parties call them pobrecitos. American colleges call them international students & diverse. my mom was white in México & my dad was mestizo & after they crossed the border they became diverse. & minorities. & ethnic. & exotic. but my parents call themselves mexicanos, who, again, should not be confused for mexicanos living in México. those mexicanos might call my family gringos, which is the word my family calls white folks & white folks call my parents interracial. colleges say put them on a brochure. my parents say que significa esa palabra. i point out that all the men in my family marry lighter-skinned women. that’s the Chicano in me. which means it’s the fancy college degrees in me, which is also diverse of me. everything in me is diverse even when i eat American foods like hamburgers, which, to clarify, are American when a white person eats them & diverse when my family eats them. so much of America can be understood like this.

[Author's Note:] When my grandmother came to the United States from Puerto Rico in the 1940s, she was a beautiful, glamorous woman from a wealthy family in the capital city, and the young bride of a dashing naval officer. She expected to be received as such. Instead, she found that people here had a very reductionist view of what it meant to be Puerto Rican, of what it meant to be Latinx. Everything about her confused her new neighbors: her skin tone, her hair, her accent, her notions. She wasn't what they expected a boricua to be. My grandmother spent much of her adult life in the States but didn't always feel welcome here. She resented the perpetual gringo misconceptions about her. She never got past that resentment, and the echoes of her indignation still have some peculiar manifestations in my family today. One of the symptoms is me. Always raging against a perceived slight, always fighting against ignorance in mainstream ideas about ethnicity and culture. I'm acutely aware that the people coming to our southern border are not one faceless brown mass but singular individuals, with stories and backgrounds and reasons for coming that are unique. I feel this awareness in my spine, in my DNA. So I hoped to present one of those unique personal stories - a work of fiction - as a way to honor the hundreds of thousands of stories we may never get to hear. And in so doing, I hope to create a pause where the reader may begin to individuate. When we see migrants on the news, we may remember: these people are people.

I mean, does anyone ever talk about why people are crossing? I can promise you it’s not with some grand ambition to come here and ruin everything for the gringo chingaos. People are desperate, man.

There are people whose external reality is generous because it is transparent, because you can read everything, accept everything, understand everything about them: people who carry their own sun with them.

It was a gringo; in the remote corners of the world the short-sleeved flowered tourist shirt, the steel-rimmed glasses, khaki pants and bulldog shoes had become the uniform of earnest American enterprise. Moon recognized the man as the new missionary. His head was cropped too close, so that his white skull gleamed, and the red skin of his neck and jaw was riddled with old acne; his face was bald with anxiety and tiresome small agonies.

Antonio José Bolivar ôta son dentier, le rangea dans son mouchoir et sans cesser de maudire le gringo, responsable de la tragédie, le maire, les chercheurs d'or, tous ceux qui souillaient la virginité de son Amazonie, il coupa une grosse branche d'un coup de machette, s'y appuya, et prit la direction d'El Idilio, de sa cabane et ses romans qui parlaient d'amour avec des mots si beaux que, parfois, ils lui faisaient oublier la barbarie des hommes.

I am Joaquin, Lost in a world of confusion, Caught up in a whirl of a gringo society, Confused by the rules, Scorned by attitudes, Suppressed by manipulations, And destroyed by modern society. My fathers have lost the economic battle and won the struggle of cultural survival. And now! I must choose Between the paradox of Victory of the spirit, despite physical hunger Or to exist in the grasp of American social neurosis, sterilization of the soul and a full stomach.

Entonces el desierto le decía que la muerte es sólo una fatiga de las leyes de la naturaleza: la vida es la regla del juego, no su excepción, y hasta el desierto que parecía muerto escondía toda una minuciosa vida que prolongaba, originaba o remedaba las leyes de la existencia humana.

My honey child, them housing projects Cannot contain her multitudes A sunbeam, hard upon her Just a fly strugglin’ through her braid loops Watch me prove to ‘em I’m more than nothin’ But a ragamuffin with homesick eyes Yes, when it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me My love, she is a drummer Than industrial steel, her backbone tougher The eloping night and the honey moon that trails Just dirt ‘neath her finger nails I’ll be down on them crossroads ‘Til daybreak winks a bright eye And if it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me She’s heard all the right things And they did not persuade her She has no use for your words What she wants is your labor ‘Cause when gringos speak of minorities They tend to keep their voices low Ah, but when that gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me

Translation simplifies, it schematizes: something that seemed potentially profound falls from grace and lands on its head, turning out to be nothing but a doodle. For Marina, this law of gravity dictating bilingualism confirms what she’s always suspected: that if gringos were drawings, they’d be drawn with markers. And

They [the church] wanted us to give food out to malnourished mothers and children, but they didn't want us to question why we were malnourished to begin with. They wanted us to grow vegetables on the tiny plots around our houses, but they didn't want us to question why we didn't have enough land to feed ourselves. [p. 16]

Mas el gringo encontró, dentro del tercer día, interesante a Juanita por su afán de llevar la contraria y de engolfarse, sistemáticamente, en discusiones interminables. No dejaba de llamarle vivamente la atención oír que sostenía una vez determinada opinión y al día siguiente la opinión contraria, con sorprendente versatilidad, seriedad y descaro. Pero le sacaba de quicio el que tuviera ante la vida, siendo joven y bella, una actitud de cruel hostilidad y se volviera gratuitamente inaguantable con un estribillo que esgrimía al final de las más enconadas discusiones, y ese aire de superioridad insolente y burlón con que miraba con sus ojos bajo las finas cejas altas.

Ronald Reagan goes around saying that Nicaragua is communist and that communism is a threat to Central America. Why doesn't he say that he's a big capitalist, and that capitalism has made a great mess of Central America? Why doesn't he talk about what capitalism has done? We don't know what communism is, but we sure know what capitalism has done for us!

She took him by the ears and blew into his nostrils to give him a start, then looked into his eyes to see what she had surprised there.

La libertad y la plenitud están fuera de las estructuras.

Zgłębianie indiańskiej duszy jest jak nurkowanie w kowadle.

bodega!

Predete il cappuccino: dopo le dieci del mattino e' immorale (forse anche illegale). Al pomeriggio e' insolito, a meno che faccia freddo; dopo pranzo, invece, e' da americani. - Un ejemplo, el cappuccino: después de las 10 de la mañana es inmoral (quizá es ilegal). En la tarde es insólito, a menos que haga frío; después de la comida, es cosa de americanos (gringos).

There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man’s mind. He will pray and blaspheme, and will curse the day he ever heard of it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares, still believing that he missed it only by a foot. He will see it every time he closes his eyes. He will never forget it till he is dead—and even then Doctor did you ever hear of the miserable gringos on Azuera, that cannot die.

There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man’s mind. He will pray and blaspheme, and will curse the day he ever heard of it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares, still believing that he missed it only by a foot. He will see it every time he closes his eyes. He will never forget it till he is dead—and even then Doctor, did you ever hear of the miserable gringos on Azuera, that cannot die?

¿Cómo era posible que los gobiernos de Juan José Arévalo y Jacobo Árbenz Guzmán, empeñados en acabar con el feudalismo en Guatemala y convertir al país en una democracia liberal y capitalista, hubieran provocado semejante histeria en la United Fruit y en los Estados Unidos? Que desataran la indignación entre los finqueros guatemaltecos lo podía entender, eran gentes congeladas en el pasado; también comprendía a la Frutera, por supuesto, que nunca antes había pagado impuestos. ¡Pero en Washington! ¿Era ésa la democracia que querían los gringos para América Latina? ¿Ésa la democracia que había postulado Roosevelt con sus discursos de «buena vecindad» con América Latina? ¿Una dictadura militar al servicio de un puñado de latifundistas codiciosos y racistas y de una gran corporación yanqui? ¿Para eso habían bombardeado los sulfatos la ciudad de Guatemala, matando e hiriendo a decenas de inocentes?

Antonio José Bolívar Proaño si tolse la dentiera, l'avvolse nel fazzoletto e senza smettere di maledire il gringo primo artefice della tragedia, il sindaco, i cercatori d'oro, tutti coloro che corrompevano la verginità della sua amazzonia, taglio con un colpo di machete un ramo robusto e si avvio verso El Idilio, verso la sua capanna, e verso i suoi romanzi che parlavano d'amore con parole così belle che a volte gli facevano dimenticare la barbarie umana.

And that’s when it got ugly. Many of the colder countries were what you used to call “First World.” One of the delegates from a prewar “developing” country suggested, rather hotly, that maybe this was their punishment for raping and pillaging the “victim nations of the south.” Maybe, he said, by keeping the “white hegemony” distracted with their own problems, the undead invasion might allow the rest of the world to develop “without imperialist intervention.” Maybe the living dead had brought more than just devastation to the world. Maybe in the end, they had brought justice for the future. Now, my people have little love for the northern gringos, and my family suffered enough under Pinochet to make that animosity personal, but there comes a point where private emotions must give way to objective facts. How could there be a “white hegemony” when the most dynamic prewar economies were China and India, and the largest wartime economy was unquestionably Cuba? How could you call the colder countries a northern issue when so many people were just barely surviving in the Himalayas, or the Andes of my own Chile? No, this man, and those who agreed with him, weren’t talking about justice for the future. They just wanted revenge for the past. [Sighs.] After all we’d been through, we still couldn’t take our heads from out of our asses or our hands from around each other’s throats.

Un ejemplo para este continente de indios y de negros, que se lo pasan en revoluciones para tumbar a un dictador y poner a otro. Éste es un país diferente, una verdadera república, tenemos orgullo cívico, aquí el Partido Conservador gana limpiamente y no se necesita a un general para que haya orden y tranquilidad, no es como esas dictaduras regionales donde se matan unos a otros, mientras los gringos se llevan todas las materias primas —expresó Trueba en el comedor del club, brindando con una copa en la mano, en el momento en que se enteró de los resultados de la votación.

Express yourself, whether it is to a server who gave you exceptional service, or a taxi driver who tried to run you over or a child who looks at you in utter curiosity and you just have to smile and say 'hello', express yourself because you are a valuable part of this equation we call humanity.

Vivo en los Estados Unidos y soy chilena, sangre, voluntad y memoria. Al llegar a este país me obligaron a llenar un formulario en el cual había una casilla referente a la raza: la primera alternativa era blanca, la cual iba a automáticamente yo a marcar, cuando leí más abajo la palabra “Hispanic”. Me pareció una enorme incultura por parte de los funcionarios gringos ya que lo hispano no se refiere a una raza, pero abismada comprendí que por primera vez en mi vida me expulsaban de mi propio nicho, de lo que creía mi identidad natural y objetiva, aunque entre una norteamericana y yo no mediase la más mínima diferencia física ( más aún en este caso específico: soy pelirroja, hasta me parezco a ellos ). Ni que decirlo, marqué con saña el segundo cuadrado y cada día transcurrido de estos seis años me he ido apegando más y más a él. Cuando camino por las calles de la ciudad, a veces me da la impresión de que todos mis antepasados están allí, en la pulcra e impersonal boca del metro, con la esperanza de llegar a alguna parte. Todo chicano o salvadoreño despreciable es mi tío, el hondureño que retira la basura es mi novio. Cuando Reina se declara a sí misma una desclasada, sé exactamente a que se refiere. Toda mi vida ha corrido por este lado del mundo. Mi cuna real y ficticia, el lugar donde nací y el otro que fui adquiriendo, lucen oropeles muy americanos ( ¡ no acepto que ese adjetivo se lo atribuyan los del norte! América es tanto la de arriba como la de abajo, norte y sur tan americanos uno como el otro). Trazo los dos puntos del continente para señalar los míos y agrego un tercero, éste. Dos de ellos resultan razonablemente cercanos, y luego, inevitable, la línea larga baja y baja hasta llegar al sur, hasta lo que, a mi pesar, debo reconocer como el fin del mundo. Sólo los hielos eternos más allá de esa tierra. Allí nací. Mapuches o españoles, fluidas, impredecibles, vigorosas, allí están mis raíces.

Whoa!” cried the Crucified Christ—he looked more like the Drowned Christ at the moment, and the whoa word was a foreign-sounding one to the Spanish-speaking kindergartners. Four or five of the terrified children instantly wet their pants; one little girl shrieked so loudly that several girls and boys bit their tongues. Those kindergartners nearest the door to the bedroom bolted through the bedroom, screaming, and raced into the hall. Those children who must have believed there was no escape from the gringo Christ fell to their knees, peeing and crying, and covered their heads with their hands; one little boy hugged a little girl so hard that she bit him in the face.

¡Pero en Washington! ¿Era ésa la democracia que querían los gringos para América Latina? ¿Ésa la democracia que había postulado Roosevelt con sus discursos de «buena vecindad» con América Latina? ¿Una dictadura militar al servicio de un puñado de latifundistas codiciosos y racistas y de una gran corporación yanqui? ¿Para eso habían bombardeado los sulfatos la ciudad de Guatemala, matando e hiriendo a decenas de inocentes? Todo aquello había hecho pedazos su vida, barrido sus ilusiones y su fe. ¿O comenzó antes, por su malhadada aventura con la hijita de su compañero de estudios y amigo entrañable? Sí, ése había sido el principio del fin. ¿Había tenido él la culpa, o fue más bien una víctima de la inconsciente lascivia de esa criatura que lo sacó de sus casillas? ¿Era Miss Guatemala una niñita inocente o un ser diabólico? A ratos se avergonzaba de sí mismo por buscarse esas excusas para lo que había sido pura y simplemente el atropello de un adulto lujurioso contra una niña. Entonces lo comían los remordimientos.

somewhere along the dust-chocked Guatemalan road between...and ...was where I confirmed that I preferred traveling around the slow, bone-rattling way: by bus,with ordinary people. The bus we were riding in had been repainted in bright reds. The inside was colorful too: the seats had springs popping out of the upholstery, and the floor was caked with dirt and garbage. Chickens, some tied in bunches and others wandering loose, squawked noisily. Bouncing along a road to a place I had never been, and would never go back to, suddenly felt exciting, liberating even

My mother is very religious. She's one of those old ladies that spends her life in the church. She just prays and prays, day and night. We have a very different idea of what religion is. She doesn't understand what my work is about, why I want to make changes in the way we live. She thinks we should be thankful for the little we have and leave well enough alone. I suppose she thinks that if she prays enough, God will come down from the sky with a plate of beans for her to eat. But I don't think that God say, 'Go to church and pray all day and everything will be fine.' No. For me God says, 'Go out and make the changes that need to be made, and I'll be there to help you.' [p. 30]

In the casual opinion of most Americans, I am an old man, and therefore of little account, past my best, fading in a pathetic diminuendo while flashing his AARP card; like the old in America generally, either invisible or someone to ignore rather than respect, who will be gone soon, and forgotten, a gringo in his degringolade. Naturally I am insulted by this, but out of pride I don’t let my indignation show. My work is my reply, my travel is my defiance. And I think of myself in the Mexican way, not as an old man but as most Mexicans regard a senior, an hombre de juicio, a man of judgement; not ruco, worn out, beneath notice, someone to be patronized, but owed the respect traditionally accorded to an elder, someone (in the Mexican euphemism) of La Tercera Edad, the Third Age, who might be called Don Pablo or tio (uncle) in deference. Mexican youths are required by custom to surrender their seat to anyone older. They know the saying: Mas sabe el diablo por viejo, que por diablo - The devil is wise because he’s old, not because he’s the devil. But “Stand aside, old man, and make way for the young” is the American way. As an Ancient Mariner of a sort, I want to hold the doubters with my skinny hand, fix them with a glittering eye, and say, “I have been to a place where none of you have ever been, where none of you can ever go. It is the past. I spent decades there and I can say, you don’t have the slightest idea.

GO, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO…” El abuso del verbo inglés induce al orgasmo fonético. Táctica azteca: Si uno dice muchas veces una palabra en inglés la nacionaliza. (A cambio de Texas y California les hemos ido arrancando a los gringos su vocabulario.)

The image of Che Guevara adorn the walls of students’ bedrooms and T-shirts the world over. Looking out over the head of the viewer he cuts a Christ-like figure. In fact, he was a murdering racist psychopath. A direct descendent of the last viceroy of Peru, he hated Black people and American Indians almost as much as gringos. Only pure-blooded Spaniards were good enough for him – despite his Irish blood He happily shot his own men in the back of the head for minor infractions. In Havana he summarily executed so many allies as well as enemies in the football stadium, Taliban-style, Fidel Castro had to beg him to stop. He helped establish labour camps in Cuba. A Stalinist, he backed the bloody suppression of the Hungarian Uprising An Argentinian, he played host to dictator Juan Perón. A hardline Communist, he back-channelled with President Kennedy. During the Cuban missile crisis he urged a pre-emptive strike against the US, though America’s retaliation would have wiped Cuba from the map. “The Cuban people are willing to sacrifice themselves,” he said. Did anyone ask them? He alienated the Cubans, the Russians and the Chinese in turn. The people of the Congo are suffering from his bungled intervention to this day. The Communist Party in Bolivia did not want him there. Nor did any of the other Communist parties in the surrounding countries. When he was captured, the only people that tried to rescue him were the CIA. Still, he takes a great photograph.

As I look back, I realize that there were multiple stimuli for this emerging uneasiness that I was doing the right thing but not in the right way. In retrospect, they clustered around the growing discomfort I felt in both the attitude we brought to our work and the tone in which we carried out our work. Regarding attitude, although we were very clear that as foreign “gringos” working in El Salvador we were there to accompany and learn from the Salvadorans, still, we arrived with pretty clear plans and agendas. We had, after all, followed the methodology of “liberation theology” and done our “social and political analysis.” We knew the causes of suffering and violence (unjust economic policies) and we knew the basic solutions (structural changes in political agendas and even in governments). We knew who were the good guys (the struggling poor and those who were struggling together with them – us!) and the bad guys (the oligarchy, the military, the Reagan Administration, of course the death squads – them!).

No, no estúpido!” shouts the uglier one. “Don’t you know who this is? This is the Gringo Scarface. He is worth muy dinero.

room and the tension hits like a brick. Tonight we’re assigned to one half of a long room. Tadeo is moving up in the world of mixed martial arts, and we’re all beginning to sense something big. He’s lying on a table, on his stomach, naked except for his boxers, not an ounce of fat on his 130-pound body. His cousin Leo is massaging his shoulder blades. The lotion makes his light brown skin glisten. I ease around the room and speak to Norberto, his manager, Oscar, his trainer, and Miguel, his brother and workout partner. They smile when they speak to me because I, the lone gringo, am viewed as the man with the money.

The old debate on whether or not the Chinese or the Vietnamese made the best American food ran through my head. Everyone knew that you couldn’t depend on a North American–run place, because gringos just aren’t good at such things.

The street was one of the seedier places in Juarez, a place where gringo tourists didn't usually show their faces. The tall American who was leaning against the bar was out of place, but as long as he didn't mind spending fifteen dollars for a bottle of beer, the bartender wasn't going to object to his presence. He was already on his third bottle, and Felicita had been sitting with him for

Again, that didn't matter much to Eduardo. A substantial number of his customers were in that same business, which suited him fine, since that meant they could afford the ridiculous prices he had to charge just to stay afloat. He had seen more than a few of them having private conversations with John the gringo, and though he hadn't seen money change hands, he knew without a

Vocês vão ver, voltarão para repartir tudo entre os padrecos, os gringos e os ricos, e nada para os pobres, naturalmente, porque estes estarão sempre tão fodidos que no dia em que a merda tiver algum valor os pobres nascerão sem o cu.

I’m not sure what it was about that first trip to Guatemala that made him want to go back, but he did. That man, that typical drunk gringo in Guatemala, had emerged from the bar, sobering in the light, brushing off his shirt, waving away his comrades, and had taken a new walk—not the one he took with me, that was just more of the same, minus the drinking—but the one after ours, a walk he would never return from, not really, not because he didn’t want to and not because he wasn’t allowed to, but because he couldn’t. A typical man is capable of that.

Green Grows the Laurel’ recalls the Irish contribution to the Mexican-American War of 1845-47. (It has been suggested that the Mexican term gringo derives from the title of this song, such was its popularity along the front line.)

Hasta morir nos vamos a odiar hijos de su puta madre! Nada más para aventar bombas atómicas a gente inocente, gringos de mierda...

Bonilla and Christmas, working with Zemurray, were able to frame the war as an insurgency, the people rising up against a government selling the nation to gringos and Yankee bankers, whereas what you really had was more sinister and interesting—a battle waged by a private American citizen, a corporate chief, against a debt-ridden but sovereign nation.

Well, at least I will have time to say goodbye to my customers." Ramón gave Julieta a quizzical look. "I get they will be upset with the changes, but they will still be glad that you are the chef." "You still don't get it Ramón, do you? Yes, I will be here. But many of my customers will no longer support the place if it's a corporate chain. Of course, you will get new customers, tourists from out of state and residents of the beach towns who think coming to Barrio Logan is some type of Mexican Disneyland, where they can buy churros and take selfies in front of Chicano murals. But many locals will avoid us like ICE. And there will be protesters, including members of my own family and my friends. I can guarantee that." Ramón's throat tightened. "Julieta, you are from the community. And I'm no gringo---I'm Mexican, too." "You're a coconut, Ramón. You may be technically Mexican, but you are not part of this community.

Bolo de Tilichera: Ya tenés seis años de andar haciéndote la bestia hippie. Ya es hora de que te pongás claro. Vení morite echando verga o morite en un buen patín de demerol, pero dejá de chingar con esas cartas lloronazas que nos hacés la campaña de mandar. Como si aquí estuvieramos en un lecho de rosas, como dijo aquel indio cerote mexicano. Shumo y poeta. Aquí hay muerte a carretadas. Ahora esa mierda se da en matas, como el chichicaste o como la ruda. De los compas ya quedamos muy pocos. Mataron a Efi. Le quebraron el culo el siete de septiembre del año pasado. Como no había compuesto tus pedazos no te había contado. La cosa está color de hormiga. Andamos a salto de mata, en estampida. En cualquier momento nos dan candela. El rompimiento se produjo al fin, las FAR y el Partido se echaron verga, todo se hizo una bola de mierda. Los más culpables son esos viejos cerotes de la dirección del Partido, pues al principio dejaron que los patojos chingamuzas les bailaran las pelotas en la cara y no hincharon los huevos agarrando la mashinga. Esperaron a que todos los cuates chingones se murieran para seguir partiendo el pastel. Cuando vieron que la cosa estaba jodida dieron el vergazo para seguir administrando su agencia de viajes. Todo el mundo se está yendo a la mierda. La consigna general es sálvese el que pueda. Así que 'olvídate mi viejo', como dice Capulina. Tú tranquilo, machete en tu vaina. ¿Qué son esas chingaderas de estar planeando regresar para reincorporarte? ¿Qué vas a venir a hacer? ¿A que te den negra? Mejor hacé cogezones de madrileñas blancotas y hediondas, dejá sembrada semilla de la topada en ese continente viejo y hecho mierda y dejá ya de somatarte el pecho. Esa onda no es así. Esta nota no es religión ni chingadera ninguna. Yo de aquí no voy a salir si no es con las patas padelante. No les voy a dar gusto a esos gringos hijos de puta de que me agarren vivo para que después me deshagan los coyoles a vergazos. Así que ésta puede ser la última que te escribo (parezco el marido de Ufemia, el de la rancherada mexicana cuando recibas esta carta sin razón). Pero así es la bola y ya escogí mi vida y mi muerte. No me hago bolas con la nota esa. Estoy claro. Desde que nos ensartamos en esta movidic ya no me hago ningún problema. Ni estoy chingado a nadie por sus vacilaciones. Vos nunca estuviste claro, siempre te lo dije. Así que olvidate del asunto, ya no le hagás cráneo a esta nota y agarrá tu propia onda. Escribí y dejate de babosadas y dar facha de revolucionario. Vos solamente sos escritor, el mico de la selva como dice el Popol Vuh. Dejá de dar espejo de otra cosa. Dejanos a nosotros los vergazos, la muerte violenta y las chingamuzas. Vos morite de viejo, de cirrosis crónica, bolote de tilichera, cerote, soñador empedernido. La revolución no es un sueño, sabelo, entendelo de una vez, metételo en en la cabezota pelona que debés tener ahora, hacele coco de una vez por todas. La revolución son vergazos y muerte, no carbúrex ni palabras. Sólo el ue está convencido de esa movida puede estar claro en la onda. Vos no. Sabelo dialtiro, deunavez. Si sos chingón chingón terminá la novela que decís que estás escribiendo. Ai cuando nosotros terminemos la revolución te mandamos a llamar, ¿oíste? Te paso al costo el dato que Chucha Flaca se juyó, se fue de juida, se bailón con el pisto de su Sección y exiló a México. La organización lo condenó a muerte por desfalco y deserción. Te lo cuento para que veas que no todos son de a huevo a la hora de rajar ocote que la cosa no es de soplar y hacer botellas. Así que pies de plomo, pisado. Viajá, pisá, chupá, tirá tu conciencia a la mierda, que aquí estamos nosotros muriéndonos para que vos podás escribir, para que todos aprendan a escribir y a comer bien, y a tener casa y trabajo y estar alegres, sin miedo. Quedá con Dios que no hay, así que quedate solo pero contento y pachangero como siempre, LOS COMPAS

Huitlacoche, served on tostadas, is described as “Mexican truffle” as a way to soften the blow to diners: known in English as corn smut, the ancient Aztecs considered this maize a delicacy.

Better a gringo than a dead man,” the lieutenant sighed, smoke escaping his nostrils. “Barely! But, yes, hell yes.

It’s fairly common for second-generation Mexican-Americans—and nearly reflexive for fourth-generation Mexican-Americans—to define themselves as white. Within their own social strata, Mexican-Americans have redefined “white” from an exclusive term that refers to “them” and especially “those gringos” to an inclusive term meaning not simply “us” but “all of us.

offered him a scholarship to the graduate school at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston, all expenses paid by the U.S. Department of State. The war in Europe was devouring gringos; American schools had been drained of young men.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. —GEORGE CARLIN

A certain breed of drinker has discovered tequila’s potential as a complex and sophisticated sipping spirit, but the vast majority of people still associate it with salt, lime, bad decisions, and a nasty hangover.

I’ve even been sent a press release for a tequila distilled an astonishing five times. I didn’t taste it, but what essence of the original ingredient—agave—could possibly be left over, I cannot imagine.

D. H. Lawrence saw a very different México and had very different ideas about race. Unlike the others, the British writer spoke only rudimentary Spanish and had very little contact with even English speaking Mexicans. With his wealthy wife’s money, Lawrence toured the country in a rented limousine, looking at archaeological sites and visiting other English speakers. He then holed up in the Hotel Monte Carlo in Mexico City to write a novel about México that propounded his racist theories.

En ese tiempo lejano no conocíamos la puñetera tele, el día de Reyes todavía no era un criadero de pequeños psicópatas y retrasados mentales, y sus majestades de Oriente aún no se habían dejado sodomizar por el imbécil Papá Noel de George Bush y sus gringos.

European revolutions followed textbooks—Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man, Karl Marx’ Communist Manifesto or Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf—while Mexicans wrote their texts after the fighting was over.

(...) existe uma mentalidade Speedy González, toda «Hey gringo, my friend», que vê em cada ser humano um «amigo». Todos conhecemos o género — é o «gajo porreiro», que se «dá bem com toda a gente». E o «amigalhaço». E tem, naturalmente, dezenas de amigos e de amigas, centenas de amiguinhos, camaradas, compinchas, cúmplices, correligionários, colegas e outras coisas começadas por c. Os amigalhaços são mais detestáveis que os piores inimigos. Os nossos inimigos, ao menos, não nos traem. Odeiam-nos lealmente. Mas um amigalhaço, que é amigo de muitos pares de inimigos e passa o tempo a tentar conciliar posições e personalidades irreconciliáveis, é sempre um traidor. Para mais, pífio e arrependido. Para se ser um bom amigo, têm de herdar-se, de coração inteiro, os amigos e os inimigos da outra pessoa. E fácil estar sempre do lado de quem se julga ter razão. O que distingue um amigo verdadeiro é ser capaz de estar ao nosso lado quando nós não temos razão. O amigalhaço, em contrapartida, é o modelo mais mole e vira-casacas da moderação. Diz: «Eu sou muito amigo dele, mas tenho de reconhecer que ele é um sacana.» Como se pode ser amigo de um sacana? Os amigos são, por definição, as melhores pessoas do mundo, as mais interessantes e as mais geniais. Os amigos não podem ser maus. A lealdade é a qualidade mais importante de uma amizade. E claro que é difícil ser inteiramente leal, mas tem de se ser. Miguel Esteves Cardoso, in 'Os Meus Problemas

These are the moments when you feel the levity in your chest—when you see all the people passing by and you can’t help thinking that they are human and surely trying to just live their lives with some sort of dignity and that that’s the only thing that really matters.

Gringos! They have copied us again

This is the part of film acting that I was only too happy to leave behind, the part that became more agonizing as time went on. Yet you have to go through those terrifying times if you are ever to have the magic ones, the times when it all works—and to be truthful, those I have missed. There were perhaps only eight or nine of them out of forty-five films, but they were the times when I stepped into my light and my muse was with me, all my channels were open, the creative flow coursed through my body, and I became. Whether the scene was sad or funny, tragic or triumphant, never mattered. When it worked it was like being enveloped in love and light, as I danced the intricate dance between technique and emotion, fully inside the scene while simultaneously a separate part of me observed and enjoyed the unfolding. Ah, but just because it has happened once doesn’t mean it will again! Each time is starting new, raw; it’s a crapshoot—you just never know. Which is why this profession is so great for the heart—and so hard on the nerves. I always assumed that the more you did something the easier it would get, but in the case of my career I found the opposite to be true. Every year the work seemed to get harder and my fear more paralyzing. Once, on the set of Old Gringo, I watched Gregory Peck late in his career doing a long, very difficult scene over and over again all day long. I saw that he too was scared. I went up to him afterward and hugged him and told him how beautiful and transparent he had been. “But, Greg,” I asked, “why do we do this to ourselves? Especially you. You’ve had a long and incredible career. You could easily retire. Why are you still willing to be scared?” Greg sat for a moment, rubbing his chin. Then he said, “Well, Jane, maybe it’s like my friend Walter Matthau says. His biggest thrill in life is to be gambling and losing a bit more than he can afford and then have one chance to win it all back. That’s what you live for—that moment. The crapshoot. If it’s easy, what’s the point?

—El poder político es totalmente distinto —dijo tras una larga pausa—, nadie lo deja por gusto. No hay presidente gringo que no intente reelegirse para un segundo mandato, si es que tiene oportunidad. Álvaro Uribe en Colombia o Daniel Ortega en Nicaragua no han tenido empacho en forzar la legislación para estirar su gobierno; Putin o los Bush, cada uno con sus propias armas, buscan perpetuarse en el poder. Da lo mismo que sean de izquierda o de derecha. El sexo tampoco importa; Angela Merkel y Michelle Bachelet también quisieron extender su mandato.

Hey, mamacitas! How about you ditch those losers and come with us. We'll show you a real good time," one of them shouts through the window. "Fuck off," Doug shouts. One of the guys stumbles out of the car and advances on Doug. Sierra yells something but I'm not paying attention. Instead, I'm watching Alex tear off his jacket and block the guy's path. "Get out of my way," the guy orders. "Don't lower yourself by protecting this white dick." Alex stands toe to toe with the guy, the tire iron gripped tightly in his hand. "You fuck with the white dick, you fuck with me. It's that simple. Comprendes, amigo?" Another guy steps out of the car. We are in some serious trouble. "Girls, take the keys and get in the car," Alex orders, his tone precise. "But . . ." There's a lethal calmness in his eyes. Oh, boy. He's dead serious. Doug tosses Sierra his car keys. Now what? Are we supposed to sit in the car and watch them fight? "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him. "Me, either," Sierra says. A guy in the other car sticks his head out of the window. "Alejo, that you?" Alex's stance relaxes. "Tiny? What the hell you doin' with these pendejos?" The guy named Tiny says something in Spanish to his buddies and they jump back into the car. They almost seem relieved they won't have to fight Alex and Doug. "I'll tell you as soon as you tell me what you're doin' with a bunch of gringos," Tiny says. Alex chuckles. "Get out of here." When we're all back in the car, I hear Doug say, "Thanks for having my back." Alex mumbles, "Don't sweat it.

El gobierno español optó por enriquecerse a costa de la pobreza de sus pobladores; por su parte, el gobierno inglés prefirió enriquecerse a través de la riqueza de sus gobernados.

Si la realidad cambia también deben cambiar las ideas, y lo más importante: si cambia la realidad personal, también deben cambiar las ideas personales.

I wanted life to be a film so that I could rewind it to when I first saw Gringo on the big screen. I was sitting happily between Flathead and Hercules, feeling the luckiest and most protected child in the world. Back to the time when I rode with Happiness on the bike in Qala, when Aida and I first kissed, and when Papula and I danced under the cascading water from the hose. I did not want to stop running, or stop thinking of those wonderful times when I had been happy,