Yesterday was her first (accidental) tasting of the mighty jalapeño. Don't get me wrong, I would never give her hot peppers on purpose. She's way too young. And I didn't have my first accidental tasting of a chile until I was about four. I remember that well! So well. My nanita (Maria "Lucha" Quintana) gave me a washcloth to suck on, it may have had ice in it...but I think it was just wet and folded. We had been sitting at the table, and I reached forward and put my hand in the bowl to take one out. I was waved away, but my fingers had got wet from the juice, maybe they were cut. So I just put my hand in my mouth and WOW.

I have to say...I'm very glad for that pepper though. Because it whipped out a neon brush and scrawled that day into my book of memories with sparks and light. I was so young, and those moments are so clear. As the fire in my mouth faded, so do the colors and sounds of that recollection.

With lil 'Nita I made the mistake of using the same knife on a Bell pepper that I had used on Jalapeño. I thought I used a piece of the blade that could in no way have touched the chile...but I was wrong. I should have gone with my instinct, which nagged at me for a moment as I was using the knife. I should know better, after over 20 years of cooking with them. Lunita made a face, got red, began to complain, coughed a few times. I felt terrible, rushed her to the sink, rinsed her mouth, gave her some milk, and then cheese. She recovered quickly and I'm betting hasn't thought of it since. Yet, I still feel the sting.

ON ONE OF THE SUNNY STREETS of this neighborhood stands a carving of flowers in a totem that leans. A man, an artist, carved it from a stump. I love it. It reminds me of the Middle Earth-based books I'd read growing up. Not that I ever read of any detail like it in those stories. Just that I feel it would belong there.

IT'S BEGUN TO BOTHER ME. That of all the times 'nita is in the room, of all the times I am playing clips of news shows—be it Hardball With Tweety, Colbert, Daily Show, O'Reilly factor, CNN, or random shows—99% of the time, when my littlest one turns her head up to the screen to see who is talking, it's a white Male. Because I am always considering what something is teaching. Not just what that isolated moment feels like, or if it will have harm or if she will "understand it." I think of what lesson is being taught that she experiences X at all, or at the frequency she does, or at the time, or in the manner. And the fact that all little talking TV heads—many of which I laugh at—are white Males...I'm not sure yet what it is saying. It may depend on how much longer I do it. I could choose not to in front of her. I could choose that today. It also depends on what I teach her about TV (no doubt there, I don't have cable), but in the meantime...it's begun to bother me.

True, though—Gonzales is on the TV clips a lot lately.

I'm glad she doesn't know why.

I'M 38 NOW. I've been very very lucky that my genes have made me hold up quite well to time's usual costs so far. Yes, I spent well over a decade doing labor-type work; trained hard (as I see it) for a little over 2 years in TKD, true, but a good part of it is just that my genes have allowed for a strong, fast frame that has stood up very well, overall. Do not think I have not been grateful for this, that I am not every day.

I grew up a "runt," a "shrimp," a "halfman." Before I hit 16, you could have blown me over with a fan (appearances, I was still very "wiry.") I was a rail, and looked half my age for so long and got messed with big time! My experiences with being short or small were VERY big in my life for a while. I thought that was my Life. I never knew I'd reach a point where my size wasn't especially ridiculous. I'm short for most American men, at 5' 6", but people don't target me for a bullying anymore. And aside from the scary ones, there's nothing more insulting than having a ten year old start a fight with you when you are 14!

When I was 18 people thought I was 13 or 14. When I was 14 people thought I was 9. When I was 21 people thought I was 15. When I was 30 people thought I was 21.

But the gap is shrinking. And ever since I grew a mustache, I don't even get carded anymore but once in a blue moon. Hey, I can't complain. I'm 38, for cryin out loud! I've had a good run on the look of youth. The streaks of white are shaking my hold, bit by bit.

And...I feel like I've woke up in a fat suit since Winter this year. Don't get me wrong. I'm only 148 pounds and probably only 8 over, maybe 10 to be in perfect shape (which for me, is the pic to the left, taken in 2003 and probably ten pounds lighter). And I would be a fool to whine...because I don't get enough exercise by far. I'm a LAZY AMERICAN lately! Nor do I drink enough water! I'm a coffee-chuggin' chicano. And I do not mean to compare anyone in size or weight...I'm just talking from my life, my standards for myself, my feelings on my own body and life.

There's no sense in my denying it...I base a lot of my self esteem on how I feel I look naked. And I think it's time to begin a daily regimen. Because I'm not getting any more toned or firmer sitting in this damn chair so much. I am, in fact, getting dangerously close to "soft." And sometimes soft is beautiful. But it's all about time and place.

Watch for change, coming soon.

THIS AREA SOMETIMES MAKES ME ANGRY because I don't like seeing symbols of White Supremacy. Not on skin, not on bikes, not on truck windows, not on shirts. I feel like I'm on the edge of my toes, waiting for a fight when I see these signs. How dare they. How dare you proudly proclaim this in my face, where I live? Do I have the right to hit you with a brick? Are you sure? Your symbols hit me like a brick. A brick of fear. When I'm trying to walk in the sun with my little girl.

But I can't pick up bricks. I just grit my teeth. I'd probably be drowned in white oregonians if I did that. And anyway, I find it difficult to look thuggish when I am out pushing my daughter in a stroller.

I'm glad she doesn't know what those symbols mean.

Yet.

I PUSHED THE STROLLER to the counter, a black vato was working. He seemed friendly. It's odd. The area I live in feels very racially charged to me. Maybe that's because it's the Pacific North West and it's very, very, very white. In fact, when I see a Mexican, I'm like, oh okay, because there are migrantes here. Here and there. Once in a while. But when I see a black person it's like "Damn. What are you doing here?" Because I would not want to be black here. I don't even like being brown here.

It's funny. I always felt a kinship with blacks. All my life. Because I was not white, no matter what I changed my name to or what styles I tried to adopt. Because my LegalWhiteFather always talked of N*******s and I appreciated any thing he disliked. And because I knew they were really living it out in full. No hiding, and mostly I know they know. If you know what I mean. I've always just felt much more comfortable around them in general, just as I do around less-mannered, less-monied people to this day.

But once I really embraced my Mexicanness, and began reading a lot, and identifying more with that part of myself, a strange thing began to happen. I began to grow wary in these situations. Because I learned from reading that many blacks and browns fight. And that I am "supposed" to have a "thing" with them. So now when I meet a black person, a tiny part of my mind is worried that they say "aw shit, this guy is latino, he doesn't like me." And on what might unfold from there. Fears I never had before this year.

The cat with the 3/4 inch 'fro (and I do respect a 'fro in these days of tight shaves and fades) cashed my check. The taller, white, shave-headed supervisor behind him was doing that watching/not-watching thing. The black guy fumbled a little making change, and took a while. I consciously didn't watch the money in his hands, but looked to the side. I was not "dressed up" and had my beanie and my tats showing and my crazy curled mustache stylie. In other words, I felt under the camera and rifle scope in that air-conditioned, collared joint. You don't watch them handle the money, or reach in the drawer. You just look away and let their eyes crawl over your face. Act like you don't feel it and don't want to scream.

The man finished cashing my check, I said thanks man, and he said thanks buddy and we met eyes for a second and smiled.

As I walked away, the tall, white, shave-headed cat zoomed up behind him. I see well out of the corners of my eyes.

"Let's try that again," he said.

LIL 'NITA reacts to my own reaction to the world. If something makes a noise that startles her she will look right away at me (or her mother) to help her interpret its meaning.

I was walking her down the street and came to a truck in a driveway. It was running, but seemed parked. I saw, as I approached, that it was an insulation truck pumping foam into a house. Or at least the hose was hooked up.

I approached it slowly, watching the wheels all the while. As the truck was squatted right over the sidewalk, I was squeezed in front of it and not quite in the street, but close. I felt a little anxious as I walked in front of it, but it seemed safe. Not moving at all, no driver in the cab, hose hooked up....

I moved the stroller in front of the truck, but just before I did—my nerves on edge—the truck's internal gears or engine shifted and made a noise and scared the hell out of me and I smacked my foot down hard and stopped the stroller short before it could enter the large truck's path.

But it was a false alarm, just the insulation being pumped into the hose.

However, my reaction had coupled with the sound and my daughter began wrinkling her face and crying. I didn't notice until we were in front of the next house. But she kept turning her head and crying at the truck. With my reaction, I had informed her it was dangerous even to me. I have reason that tells me quickly the fear is unwarranted. She was left with the fear.

So I stopped and kneeled down next to her and held her, kissed her, let her know with my tone that it was all okay. "That's just a Loud Noise," I told her, as I do with every sound from my coffee-grinder (I prepare her "Here comes a Loud Noise!"), the vacuum cleaner, trucks, motorcycles, sudden dogs barking. I want to let her know that this sudden threat is something I can contextualize and understand. I want her to have a name for it so that she understands how she can choose to react based on her own past reactions and feelings about this named thing.

I told her it was a Loud Noise, and when that didn't completely ease her anxiety, I just pushed the stroller further from the truck. As it receded, she relaxed again. I talked in a musical voice about the weeds and plants and flowers and trees that we were passing by, and she forgot all about it. Reached her hand out to try and touch the waxy, bright, leaves. I moved the stroller a little to the right as we moved forward, so she would be able to brush them with her fingertips.