homeland
I saw this billboard for 805. I think it's alcoholic beverages from my homeland. I have weird feelings about that.
If you know my phone number, you might recall it starts with 805. I didn't want a cellphone and held out for a few years, unil one year it was my birthday, and my mom bought me an iphone and put me on her plan.
Ming and I went to a hotel a few years ago, on our way somewhere else, and saw in that brochures rack a brochure for my homeland. I took one to see how they spun it. I thought there might be a cool map.
Someone went to college for advertising. She got paid to think of how to spin my homeland--decide what the mystique is. I wanted to see her work.
It was mostly about wine--that you should go there and go on wine tours and be a rich person there. The photos depict two youngish white people. Maybe the guy is wearing a cowboy hat. The light is dappled, probably through oak tree leaves, and a horse could be there. The people are in love with one another and have a relaxed, friendly feeling. They're grinning, and things are ok.
The words talk about a relaxed pace. So take off your hat and stay a while. For generations, ranchers have grown the finest grapes here. The BBQ is a delicious tradition handed down for generations also, when cattle were rounded up, and the cowboys blah blah blah. Fire roasted tri-tip, beans. The central coast has a personality all its own. You'll be welcome here.
My homeland is nothing like that, to me. The hills are beautiful, but they're hard to get to. Life is lived in the valley. That's where the chains are, and the schools. The fields, the freeway.
We went on a field trip to a special park on the hills, in sixth grade, and I loved that. But it was one day. As for vineyards, I never worked in one or visited one. I would pass them in Los Alamos and on the freeway, thinking about grapes and money, the seasons. I would see people in them, sometimes. A guy on a tractor, mostly, or outstanding in his field.
My homeland was built on racism. I believe the farms were mostly owned by white people who exploited the Mexican and Mexican-American fieldworkers. I came about from two teenagers who met processing tomatoes. It's not an abstract thing, to me--it's my origin. I never worked in the fields, but I suffered other ways related to the pesticides and harm.
I see the billboard and think about all that. I don't drink alcohol, as I never had a good example of how. I saw it as poison that makes people abuse their family members with violence. I didn't see the appeal. I don't like bars and don't drink at parties. It can feel strange, so say no, but a lot of things about me are strange.
My homeland to me is wind, mild weather, long beach days. The cemetery where my mom's parents are buried, the place my dad's ashes were scattered, some houses. A condo complex where I played. Coastal feelings. Apple tasting, the road to Guadalupe beach where I got my mom's Mustang stuck in the sand. Two restaurants I liked, the air force base, a toxic waste dump, a nuclear power plant, three special parks. A few relatives.
A place to escape from, and then visit in a tense way, because of duty or love. A place to take for granted, then flee from, but return to, in different ways.
What is your homeland? Does it matter, to you? Can you return there? When's the last time you were there? Do you love anyone who's still there? Does it need to be protected? Do you feel empowered to save it?
If this is too painful, please see these trike pics for how I heal myself. I hope you have a good way of healing yourself too.
If you know my phone number, you might recall it starts with 805. I didn't want a cellphone and held out for a few years, unil one year it was my birthday, and my mom bought me an iphone and put me on her plan.
Ming and I went to a hotel a few years ago, on our way somewhere else, and saw in that brochures rack a brochure for my homeland. I took one to see how they spun it. I thought there might be a cool map.
Someone went to college for advertising. She got paid to think of how to spin my homeland--decide what the mystique is. I wanted to see her work.
It was mostly about wine--that you should go there and go on wine tours and be a rich person there. The photos depict two youngish white people. Maybe the guy is wearing a cowboy hat. The light is dappled, probably through oak tree leaves, and a horse could be there. The people are in love with one another and have a relaxed, friendly feeling. They're grinning, and things are ok.
The words talk about a relaxed pace. So take off your hat and stay a while. For generations, ranchers have grown the finest grapes here. The BBQ is a delicious tradition handed down for generations also, when cattle were rounded up, and the cowboys blah blah blah. Fire roasted tri-tip, beans. The central coast has a personality all its own. You'll be welcome here.
My homeland is nothing like that, to me. The hills are beautiful, but they're hard to get to. Life is lived in the valley. That's where the chains are, and the schools. The fields, the freeway.
We went on a field trip to a special park on the hills, in sixth grade, and I loved that. But it was one day. As for vineyards, I never worked in one or visited one. I would pass them in Los Alamos and on the freeway, thinking about grapes and money, the seasons. I would see people in them, sometimes. A guy on a tractor, mostly, or outstanding in his field.
My homeland was built on racism. I believe the farms were mostly owned by white people who exploited the Mexican and Mexican-American fieldworkers. I came about from two teenagers who met processing tomatoes. It's not an abstract thing, to me--it's my origin. I never worked in the fields, but I suffered other ways related to the pesticides and harm.
I see the billboard and think about all that. I don't drink alcohol, as I never had a good example of how. I saw it as poison that makes people abuse their family members with violence. I didn't see the appeal. I don't like bars and don't drink at parties. It can feel strange, so say no, but a lot of things about me are strange.
My homeland to me is wind, mild weather, long beach days. The cemetery where my mom's parents are buried, the place my dad's ashes were scattered, some houses. A condo complex where I played. Coastal feelings. Apple tasting, the road to Guadalupe beach where I got my mom's Mustang stuck in the sand. Two restaurants I liked, the air force base, a toxic waste dump, a nuclear power plant, three special parks. A few relatives.
A place to escape from, and then visit in a tense way, because of duty or love. A place to take for granted, then flee from, but return to, in different ways.
What is your homeland? Does it matter, to you? Can you return there? When's the last time you were there? Do you love anyone who's still there? Does it need to be protected? Do you feel empowered to save it?
If this is too painful, please see these trike pics for how I heal myself. I hope you have a good way of healing yourself too.
posted by Laura-Marie @ 12:05 AM
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