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Quotes About Chicano

Quotes tagged as "chicano" (showing 1-14 of 14)
Carlos Fuentes
“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.”
Carlos Fuentes

Luis Valdez
“No Statue of Liberty ever greeted our arrival in this country...we did not, in fact, come to the United States at all. The United States came to us.”
Luis Valdez

Gary Soto
“I was the first Chicano to write in complete sentences.”
Gary Soto, New and Selected Poems

Sergio Troncoso
“I am in between. Trying to write to be understood by those who matter to me, yet also trying to push my mind with ideas beyond the everyday. It is another borderland I inhabit. Not quite here nor there. On good days I feel I am a bridge. On bad days I just feel alone.”
Sergio Troncoso, Crossing Borders: Personal Essays

Gloria E. Anzaldúa
“We’re afraid the others will think we’re agringadas because we don’t speak Chicano Spanish. We oppress each other trying to out-Chicano each other, vying to be “real” Chicanas, to speak like Chicanos. There is no one Chicano language just as there is no one Chicano experience.”
Gloria E. Anzaldúa

Sergio Troncoso
“At Harvard, the strong and savvy and confident thrived, while the nice or shy or quaintly moral were just bit players. In Ysleta, you believed in God because you were poor and needed something to hold on to. At Harvard, you believed in your good luck or bad luck, in all-nighters, in your political savvy.”
Sergio Troncoso, From This Wicked Patch of Dust

Sergio Troncoso
“I’ll miss everybody too. But I’ll be back for Christmas, and for the summer. Abuelita, it’s the best school in the United States.”

“You’ll come back a different person. Worse, you won’t want to come back after you see everything out there. Why would you want to come back to this horrible nada?”

“Abuelita, that’s not true. I’ll be back. I’ll call you every week, on the weekends when it’s cheaper. I’ll learn so much. Nobody at Ysleta has ever been to Harvard, at least no one the teachers can remember.”

“It’s a great honor, m’ijo. We know that. I’m sure everyone in Ysleta is proud of you. But this is who you are,” she said, for a moment scanning the dark night air and the empty street. A cricket chirped in the darkness. “God help you when you go to this ‘Havid.’ You will be so far away from us, from everything you know. You will be alone. What if something happens to you? Who’s going to help you? But you always wanted to be alone; you were always so independent, so stubborn.”

“Like you.”
Sergio Troncoso, From This Wicked Patch of Dust

Sergio Troncoso
“I held Angie Luna in that room for hours, and I remember the different times we made love like epochs in a civilization, each movement and every touch, apex upon abyss. In the luxury of our bed, we tried every position and every angle. I explored the curves on her body and delighted in seeing the freedom of her ecstasy. Her desperate whispers and pleas. I told her I loved her, and she said she loved me too. We lay in bed with our limbs entangled, in a pacific silence that reminded me of existing on a beach just for the sake of such an existence. I couldn't imagine the world ever becoming better, and for some strange reason the thought slipped into my head that I had suddenly grown to be an old man because I could only hope to repeat, but never improve on, a night like this. I finally took her home sometime when the interstate was empty, and the bridges seemed to lead to nowhere, for they were desolate too.”
Sergio Troncoso, The Last Tortilla: and Other Stories

Sergio Troncoso
“There were three eighteen-wheelers backed up against a huge warehouse. Three metal ramps dropped from the back of these trucks more or less in the direction of the warehouse. The warehouse itself was like a cavern: dark, eerily quiet, and spooky. The air was thick inside, as if the shadows were somewhere between being nothing and becoming black gelatin. The cages and the smell. That's what I noticed first. Hundreds and hundreds of small cages. All in neat rows. Planks on the floor separating each row of cages. And a horrible smell of feathers and chicken shit and dust everywhere, this impossibly thick air! A stench that made me gag at first. Yet, after the first hour, I didn't smell it anymore. I also remember that, before we started, when the warehouse was quiet, the feathers and pieces of feathers dangling from the wire mesh seemed even delicate.

We were to unload the semis and carry the chickens to the warehouse and put them into cages, two in each cage. We were to unload and carry chickens.”
Sergio Troncoso, The Last Tortilla: and Other Stories

Sergio Troncoso
“Tuyi finally stopped avoiding them with his stoic politeness and relented when he found out Laura Downing was in Number Sense already. He had a crush on her; she was so beautiful. Anyway, they would get to leave school early on Fridays when a meet was in town. Tuyi hated the competition, however. His stomach always got upset. Time would be running out and he hadn't finished every single problem, or he hadn't checked to see if his answers were absolutely right. His bladder would be exploding, and he had to tighten his legs together to keep from bursting. Or Laura would be there, and he would be embarrassed. He couldn't talk to her; he was too fat and ugly. Or he wanted to fart again, five minutes to go in the math test. After he won his first gold medal, all hell broke loose at South Loop. The school had never won before. The principal, Mr. Jacquez, announced it over the intercom after the pledge of allegiance and the club and pep rally announcements. Rodolfo Martínez won? The kids in Tuyi's class, in 7-1, stared at Tuyi, the fat boy everybody ignored, the one who was always last running laps in P. E. Then, led by Mrs. Sherman, they began to applaud. He wanted to vomit. After he won the third gold medal on the last competition of the year at Parkland High School, he didn't want to go to school the next day. He begged his parents to let him stay at home. He pleaded with them, but they said no. The day before the principal had called to tell them about what Tuyi had done. He should be proud of himself, his mother and father said, it was good that he had worked so hard and won for Ysleta. The neighborhood was proud of him. His parents didn't tell him this, but Mr. Jacquez had told them that there would be a special presentation for Tuyi at the last pep rally of the year. He had to go to school that day. When Mr. Jacquez called him up to the stage in the school's auditorium, in front of the entire school, Tuyi wanted to die. A rush of adrenaline seemed to blind him into a stupor. He didn't want to move. He wasn't going to move. But two boys sitting behind him nearly lifted him up. Others yelled at him to go up to the stage. As he walked down the aisle toward the stage, he didn't notice the wild clapping or the cheering by hundreds of kids. He didn't see Laura Downing staring dreamily at him in the third row as she clutched her spiral notebook. Everything seemed supernaturally still. He couldn't breathe. Tuyi didn't remember what the principal had said on the stage. Tuyi just stared blankly at the space in front of him and wished and prayed that he could sit down again. He felt a trickle of water down his left leg which he forced to stop as his face exploded with hotness.”
Sergio Troncoso, The Last Tortilla: and Other Stories

Sergio Troncoso
“Again, this week as I walked on Broadway, in front of giant photographs of voluptuous supermodels at a Victoria Secret mega-store, who was rebuilding the sidewalks? With sweaty headbands, ripped-up jeans, and dust on their brown faces? Their muscled hands quivered as they worked the jack-hammers and lugged the concrete chunks into dump trucks. Two men from Guanajuato. Undocumented workers. They both shook my hand vigorously, as if they were relieved I wasn’t an INS officer.

I imagined how much money Victoria Secret was making off these poor bastards. I wondered why passersby didn’t see what was in front of their faces. We use these workers. We profit from them. In the shadows, they work to the bone, for pennies. And it’s so easy to blame them for everything and
nothing simply because they are powerless, and dark-skinned,and speak with funny accents. Illegal is illegal. It is a phrase, shallow and cruel, that should prompt any decent American to burn with anger.”
Sergio Troncoso, Crossing Borders: Personal Essays

Sergio Troncoso
“Julia, is everything all right?” her father said in a raspy voice. “It’s three in the morning, m’ija.”

“I’m sorry. I have to talk to you; it’s something very important. Papá, Mamá, I’ve made a decision, and I wanted to share it with you. I’ve decided to convert to the Muslim religion.”

“What?” Pilar screamed. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Julia, what are you saying?”

“I want to be a Muslim. I’ve even chosen a new Muslim name, Aliyah.”

“Julia, are you drunk?”

“No, Papá, I’m not drunk. I’ve thought about this for a very long time. I think it’s the right thing for me, a way to follow God.”
Sergio Troncoso, From This Wicked Patch of Dust

Sergio Troncoso
“Deep inside the black mist of a forest, it rained. In his dreams, he was running. Rain fell over his face, caressed his skin andblessed him. Holy water from God’s tears. Inside the forest, Jonathan Atwater was free. Free to live and help, free for the best of life. Free of the pain and the weakness of his body. Inside the forest, he was a man. Whole and complete, and with a place to be. And most of all, he was loved. Loved completely, loved and loved again. Emancipated from all hate. In the dark forest, Atwater could fly to the heavens. He flew up. High above the horizon of trees, to the clouds, beyond the clouds, toward the stars, high as high could be. He came to a light, which was even more helpful and welcoming than the forest. He jumped into its warmth and found what he was looking for and knew everything for the first time in a long time. For the first time ever. In that light, Atwater could be warm.

Then something shattered. Suddenly there was this shattering, like glass breaking. A merciless light blinded his eyes. Then he was falling. Falling into the world again. A breezy and stupendous fall. Falling back into terror and existence again. Falling and opening his eyes and feeling his pain again. So much cursed pain. Mr. Atwater closed his eyes tightly, but he could not escape. He still found himself there. In the hospital, in this body of pain.”
Sergio Troncoso, The Nature of Truth

Francisco Jiménez
“We were to write a short essay on one of the works we read in the course and relate it to our lives. I chose the "Allegory of the Cave" in Plato's Republic. I compared my childhood of growing up in a family of migrant workers with the prisoners who were in a dark cave chained to the floor and facing a blank wall. I wrote that, like the captives, my family and other migrant workers were shackled to the fields day after day, seven days a week, week after week, being paid very little and living in tents or old garages that had dirt floors, no indoor plumbing, no electricity. I described how the daily struggle to simply put food on our tables kept us from breaking the shackles, from turning our lives around. I explained that faith and hope for a better life kept us going. I identified with the prisoner who managed to escape and with his sense of obligation to return to the cave and help others break free.”
Francisco Jiménez

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