Sunday at a Mexican Baptist Church...er, Iglesia

My Grandmother's Old Iglesia Bautista
(Cleveland Avenue, Madera, California)

I was thinking the other day about how I used to go to church as a kid with my grandmother.  For a long time, she was the only one in my family that used to talk about Jesus and how much He loved me, and that she used to go to this place called Inglesia.  It sounded like a paradise, like the "Island of Inglesia," where Jesus lived.  I'm not saying that the rest of my family were pagan worshipers, and I did go on occasion to Vacation Bible School with my cousin, probably so my mom could have a break during the summer from our constant whining about nothing to do. However, for the most part, there was not much spiritual foundation-building in my childhood.

If I did go, church was on the weekends when I stayed with my grandparents in Madera, California.  My grandmother would get me up early and we'd hop in my grandfather's pickup and he'd park and wait while we went inside the "Inglesia."  From what I remember, the sign out front looked like it was a handpainted sign from an Our Gang episode, kind of like the "He-Man Woman Hater's Club" sign, but it would be in Spanish, and, lo and behold, one of the words on the hand-painted sign was the word "Inglesia," along with other words such as, "Christo" and "Domingo."

At first glance, Inglesia really didn't look like paradise.  It was in a very old building that really looked like a house...with a church attached to it.  Not big at all.  But we would walk in and I could smell coffee brewing, combined with the smell of perfume that the ladies wore and the Tres Flores hair oil that was popular with Mexican men for their hair.  There were no cookies or donuts; instead, it was pan dulce, which was fine with me.  But, all the grownups were nice, but they all spoke Spanish, so I really didn't know what was going on most of the time.

The other kids did speak English, so I wasn't alone.  We were all in the same boat since their parents or grandparents spoke Spanish, and so they'd drag their mijos and mijas to Inglesia with them.  Some kids I remember well - I remember one kid would repeat the phrase "chuga-luga-chuga" all the time, and another kid liked to wear his shoes on the wrong feet.  One poor kid peed his pants once, but no one made fun of him, fortunately.  Actually, he thought it was kind of funny that he peed.  We'd sing songs about Jesus and we'd learn about Jesus, freaking out silently as the teacher would tell us how He sees us ALL THE TIME. There were two songs I remember in particular:  "Christ for Me" and "Angels Watching Over Me.  When the teacher tried to teach us the latter, she wrote the lyrics on the chalkboard but wrote out "Angles Watching Over Me" instead of "Angels."  It really bugged me, but I didn't say anything.  It's good to know that there are angles watching over me. It's another reason why I remember that song.  

After the fun, we'd have to go sit with the older people, and they'd march us out from the back of the sanctuary (big room with chairs) and have us sit in the front rows.  The preacher, who was a big bald man with horn-rimmed glasses, would then preach in Spanish and would yell at us kids, talking about fish, I thought. He actually was saying "pecado" ("sin) but the only thing I understood was "pescado" (fish), which was one of the few words of Spanish I knew, mainly from playing La Loteria (a bingo game for Mexicans), and El Pescado was one of the tiles on the bingo card upon which we'd place our beans.

After the yelling...uh, preaching, the big bald man with the horn-rimmed glasses would greet us at the door as we left, and would hug me, which was strange to me, because I was used to only being hugged by family members.  I really didn't know this guy, so I stood there like a fence post as he hugged me.  I'm sure he was touched by my warmth.

Even though I didn't understand most of what was said in the Inglesia, I enjoyed attending.  The believers that were there every Sunday were some of the warmest people I knew.  I became friends with many of the other kids, and from time to time when I'd attend, they would remember me and we'd pick up where we left off, which might have been trying not to laugh during the service, or running up and down the hallways after service.

A few years later, this fellowship of believers would come together to help one of their own, who would lose three young boys in a house fire, an event so tragic that even brought my stoic grandfather to tears.  These three boys were also my friends, and I still think about them today, 45 years later.  When I recall the lyrics of "Christ for Me" I can always picture one of them sitting next to me in the classroom singing it with me.

Christ for me,
Yes, it's Christ for me,
He's my Savior, my Lord and King,
I'm so happy I shout and sing!

Christ for me,
Yes, it's Christ for me,
Every day when I go my way,
It is Christ for me!

I eventually learned that it's not "Inglesia" but "Iglesia," and learned about the nature of  the "pecado" in our life.  God's grace at Christ's expense delivers us from it, however, and for that I'm grateful.  Many of those people in that fellowship have since gone to Jesus, including my grandparents (my grandfather too, as he was saved after the fire tragedy).  Last time I was in Madera, I drove past the old Iglesia Bautista on Cleveland Avenue and it was still there.  It looked much smaller than I remember, but still stood, providing a safe haven for a different fellowship of believers.  My hope is that my kids will remember their moments growing in Christ, and think about the fun times learning about Him.

English 1A Reflective Paper

 Making the decision to return to college last year was monumental for me, but that was the easy part.  It was going to be even more of an effort to get out of my house and drag this body to a campus where I would be out of my comfort zone in many ways.  This new adventure would require me to become more organized than before, to submit my life experiences to those instructors who would likely be younger than me in order to learn what they had to share, much of which I have learned in life through experience.  I would be sitting among young people who were the same age as my children, and learning how to utilize the latest technological devices, from submitting assignments online or doing homework online.  There were just some of the few differences that I would be experiencing today than those I experienced when first attending college 37 years ago. 

After completing my first semester, though, it was not quite as traumatic as I thought it would be, and by the time I had a couple of semesters under my belt, I began to have a good idea of what to expect at the beginning of the semester and at the end as well. 

Through it all, today I now find amusing to reflect back on the first day of class and of that which I was anxious.  The moments leading up to 2:00 p.m. on that first Monday of the semester were a little stressful because of my own uncertainty, but I found that I was not alone and for good reason.  The first day of class is usually the day where every chair is filled, surrounded by students lining up the walls in a standing-room-only situation, as students try to add on a class for which they should have signed up for months earlier.  It is a moment of high anxiety for those lucky few who covet that little paper that is bestowed upon them by the instructor, allowing them the permission to grace the doorway twice a week for about eighteen weeks, and receive the pearls of wisdom imparted by their teacher in the hopes of transforming them into great students and, ultimately, fine productive citizens of their communities. 

For these anxious few, the add-on slip is like the golden ticket that young Charlie Bucket sought for coveted tour of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.  Once the papers are handed down to the lucky few who are standing around, little do they know that they would now have the opportunity to learn from the great mind of Ms. Steele Smith over the next eighteen weeks!  However, like everything else, they would need to participate according to rules of the class which, like in the chocolate factory, were rather simple to follow. 

Although the story line does not emphasize it, one can ascertain that the rules at the Wonka Chocolate Factory were simple:  Show up on time, listen to Mr. Wonka and do all that is required by Mr. Wonka, and do not touch anything that was not supposed to be touched.  For the English 1A class in room LA-106, the rules were equally simple: Show up daily and on time, listen to Ms. Steele Smith and do all that is required by Ms. Steele Smith, although we did not have to worry about refraining from touching anything (or anyone) that should not be touched. 

For me, like the others who had the privilege of planning ahead by having a preferable registration time period, the anxiety began with the uncertainty of how Ms. Steele Smith was going to instruct us.  I knew very little about her; thus, questions loomed:  Will she be a right-wing conservative to the right of Rush Limbaugh, or a left-wing liberal to the left of Rachel Maddow?  Will she be warm as a fresh-baked apple pie, or be as cold as the diabetic foot of a person who ate too much of that pie?  Will she be objective or will she be subjective? 

Many of those and other questions (including why the classroom was so hot) clouded my thinking as I made my way to class that first day, but mostly wondering if (due to my size) if there would be a desk that sat about ten inches higher than the standard desk with a disability glyph affixed to it.  To my relief, there was one available, but it was already claimed by a healthy-appearing young man.  I took what authority I had to lay claim to the desk and kindly asked him to move.  On what basis did I have the authority?  It was over a hundred degrees outside and I was sweating like a race horse, having walked across campus to make it on time, giving him the impression that I was going to collapse on top of him.  By virtue of that glyph on that desk, Ms. Steele Smith made it tolerable for me by organizing workshop groups around me so I did not have to struggle to fit myself in one of the many 1970’s styles desk that were built for people who attended before the Great Obesity Epidemic of the late 20^th century, which continues on through the 2010’s.     

I sat down (comfortably, I might add) and looked toward the front of the room and saw Ms. Steele Smith, already greeting the class with a smile on her face that made me realize that she would not be like that cold diabetic foot I mentioned earlier.  In fact, she had a disposition that sent me into a state of relief, knowing that I would not be dealing with a crazy instructor, although I wondered for a second when she claimed to be an old hippie who did not have a problem using the “S” and the “F” words on occasion, along with having clear views of what she believed to the way things ought to be. 

Nevertheless, it was very clear that she was truly in her element as she discussed the topic of English, which was the literature itself, the meanings behind the story, the personality of the writer and how it transcended through their writing, the technical things required when analyzing these writers, and knowing how to convey it to our audience when composing our analyses. 

Subjects such as Aristotelian Triad (or rhetorical triangle) that discussed the balanced of persuasive elements, which were the logos, pathos, and ethos components, were covered along with understanding the need for citing sources and utilizing the proper formatting style (in this case, MLA formatting, which is the style that we use for writing papers).  Inline citations and proper setting of the works cited page were important to my instructor, as her desire for us to learn this correctly was tantamount in our becoming good writers for our college experience.  Other areas of technical knowledge required were subjects such as reading prompts, contextual analysis, critical analysis, prospectuses, and author’s notes, and as we got deeper into the semester, having learned much of the technical subjects, we began to examine our two novels. 

I became more aware of the black experience through Zora Hurston and her writing Their Eyes Were Watching God, once again learning how gifted many African-Americans were in the early 20^th century and how for many years, the young people of this country were not able to sit down and read a great novel of a young black woman coming of age in a time when there was little to no hope for people of color.  Through this writing, I learned that there was nothing that a writer includes in their writings without purpose, and that it tends to make a statement of social issues that exist at the time of these writings.  I wish I knew Zora myself because she had a kindred spirit that came out in her work, someone who exhibited an understanding of overcoming so much and yet having passion in encouraging others to overcome.

I learned about the quiet strength of women through the writings of Mary Shelley in her novel “Frankenstein,” which illustrated the difference between male and female privilege in the era when she wrote her novel, and how the entitlement to young men in that time had its consequences; not in the novel, but in real life.  Again, understanding that nothing is written without a specific purpose in mind, the book was an accurate reflection of what still goes on today in the mindset of many young people who have their problems solved for them by their parents, and how it affects the esteem needs of those young people, if not dealt with appropriately.  I did not identify as well with Shelly, mainly due to the privilege that she was born into, which I cannot relate to myself, but what people fail to understand about those in privilege is that they are able to look at social issues in a less restrictive manner, not having to worry about the day-to-day things that the “common person” deals with (such as paying the electricity bill and worry about having enough money).  This freedom does allow for creativity to flow, and for that reason, she changed the literary world and created a new genre of literature that writers are still publishing today.   

From this class, I was able to see that I was doing quite well with my writing skills, having developed my own skills over the course of thirty years working as writer in the medical field in spite of any formal training.  I drafted and published documents that required much care in detailed technical and clinical knowledge, while maintaining medical and legal boundaries that were required.  But one is only as good as they think they are, and to regard myself as one who needs no additional education would be rather arrogant.  In my experience, I have learned that I become smarter when I realize how stupid I really am. 

Regardless of my intelligence or stupidity or experience, my time in this class was a great investment in understanding not only what I’m reading but how to compose my analyses in order to achieve the persuasive results I’m looking for when reaching out to my audience.  There is always room to learn something new, and this class enabled me to do so. 

I end this semester looking back with a smile wondering why I was so anxious on the first day, perhaps like the others looking for their version of that golden ticket.  Through our workshops, the other students and I were able to get to know one another better, and I have made good friendships with more students in that class than I have in any other class.  Sometimes our workshops were spent talking about each other and what we were doing (instead of critiquing the essays at times) but even when we critiqued, we had fun (one person got ribbed for writing the words “pea tree dish” for “petri dish” and “burned at the steak” for “burned at the stake,” and that became the running gag for the remaining part of the semester.  Humor helps us to remember our errors though, and we all had a few zingers to help us remember.

On this last day, I realize that I have my own golden ticket in hand, having had the opportunity to learn how the world can be a better place through literature, knowing that I am a better person with new friends for having taken this class, and understanding that an excellent teacher makes all the difference in creating the best learning environment possible.   For that, I am truly blessed.  

In a Funk

Wah

That's me on occasion...with all that's going on I tend to get in a funk at times. My feelings of failure tend to become paramount in my mind and create some serious depression in me.

Now don't go feeling sorry for me. It's not a "boohoo, poor-me" depression, but a lethargic-procrastinating component of depression. I've learned that depression takes shape in many forms, and lack of enthusiasm and motivation leads to that component. .

Okay, I'll be honest:...I get the "boohoo, poor me" junk too...

Lack of enthusiasm and motivation leads to lethargy for me. While I've had a good run in school thus far, earning straight A's doesn't instill that much confidence in me. It just makes me wonder if I was just lucky enough to learn the material easily.  Even with all that, I still don't feel very smart.

That's mostly because before school came along, I was pretty good at failing.  I've failed so many times that I'm a success at it.

That's irony.

But, I'm not alone. Some of the most successful people in life have been numerous failures prior to reaching their pinnacle. I sleep better knowing that, and God reminds me every morning when I wake up that I still have a purpose.

I have a break this week, and while I enjoy school, I'm looking forward to the break. I'm tired and need a battery recharge.  It's all good.  Here's to failure...and success!

Go me.

John

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Winding Down the Semester

Bomb Scare at Campus Earlier This Semester 

A quick entry, since I haven't written anything in so long - at least six months.

I wanted to insert a picture of the campus, but then I found a photo which included the police when we had a bomb scare earlier this semester, just to let you know that it's not boring like most people think college is.  In the fall, we had a shooting in the campus parking lot.  I don't think the assailants were accepted into the police academy, although they did receive an in-service on arrest procedures.  

While I can't wait to see what happens next semester, I'm about three-quarters through this spring's semester.  The spring seems to last longer than the fall, but it's the same - four months of classes.  Maybe it has something to do with the spring weather.  It just proves that time is relative.

My grades are good (five classes - five A's), although it's taken much more work, and the time commitment is greater.  I focused my classes over two days (Monday and Wednesday) but they are L O N G days, from 8-5 on Monday and 8-5 on Wednesday with an additional night class from 6-9 on Wednesday.  My 4.0 isn't a cinch; I have to stay on top of things, but it's looking pretty good, as long as I stay the course.

The exercising and losing weight is at a plateau, mostly from dealing with pain issues, and a flareup of an old inflammation that I had in my leg, so I needed to rest it for a week or so.  I'll be back in the gym this week.  I tried walking around the neighborhood and that worked well, but it's hard to be accountable to a cul-de-sac. Plus, I miss the people at the gym.

I'm registered for the summer (Spanish 2), but I'm waiting to see if that's what I really want to do.  I need a break and even though I'd have a month off between classes, I wouldn't mind taking the whole summer off. It's really a matter of whether I want to get done quickly as possible or just get done, which will happen too. Either result wouldn't make a difference in my career either way.  I want to enjoy the ride, so I may just take the summer off.  Still undecided though; I have a couple of months to think about it.

Buster - 50 Pound Puppy

Also, since we adopted him seven months ago, Buster has thrived.  He's in excess of 50 pounds now, and we're hoping he stops growing.  He's gets funnier with each day and we love him in spite of his bad habits (stalking us through the windows and checking up on us while we're in the bathroom).  At least he doesn't hump legs.

Other than that, the weather is nice, I feel good today, and now all that's left is for me to study for my exams tomorrow, hit the gym, and gear up for the nice spring break that starts the day after tomorrow!

Go me!

John

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Doggin' It

Disclaimer:  Dog Photos

That being said...it’s been a busy couple of months, with exercise, school, Dodger-bashing (sorry guys), and a new dog (duh).  I find that because of my size and the energy I’m putting into what I’m doing, I need more down time to recover, which cuts into my time on the computer (non-study time).  After putting it off, I’m happy to report that I have some time to blog. 

"Needs a Home" picture of Buster, posted on Instagram

The weight battle is at a stalemate right now.  For some reason, it’s not coming off as it was during the summer.  I been diligent about avoiding fast food and other foods that aren't good for me; however, it could be stress, poor sleep patterns, inconsistent eating and/or exercise patterns may have something to do with it.  But I haven’t worried about it, mostly because I don’t want to have something new to discourage me.  I have plenty of things out there that are working hard to keep me discouraged, and it’s a daily battle to deflect the fiery arrows that come from the actions and attitudes of others who are in a constant state of “what can I do today to discourage John?” mode, in addition to the circumstances that throw themselves in front of me.  It’s that way for a lot of people, so I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  That’s just the way it is.

Buster coming home with Kellie two hours later...

The good news is that college (with the new dog) are great distractions.  College has been a lot of work, but the results show my effort.  It’s nice to see something pay off for once.  Over the years, I've poured myself into things that failed to yield any real fruitful result and this has been a good thing for me to see in my life.  It doesn't pay the bills (well, it does a little…I was able to get some stipend this year for school), but I've determined that I no longer want to go through life spending my time on activities that yield little to nothing like I've done in the past.  That’s why school and exercise are great investments.

I also have to say that exercising and chasing the dog have been helping me in building my endurance from the parking lot to the classroom.  I had a lot of difficulty (really an impossibility) walking from the parking lot to the classroom earlier this year.  I walked like Steve Martin in that scene from “The Jerk” and instead of carrying a chair and an ashtray, I was carrying me and my books.  I'm not skipping through campus, but I can now actually make it to class without stopping and without looking like I’m having a heart attack, although I am on first name basis with the guy who drives the shuttle from the parking lot, and I will gladly flag Isaac down if I’m feeling lazy.     

The face that wakes me up
in the morning...

The best thing, though, has to be the addition of Buster, our dog.  He’s my big galoot.  If there is a breed to label him with, it would be that of an Australian cattle dog.  Or a dingo.  He has a floppy ear, so his ears angle at a perfect 45 degree angle.  We figure that he is probably six months old.  We’re not sure.  He chews a lot, and he has big feet, has an issue with coordination, and is really the biggest klutz, so that’s why we think he’s still a puppy.  We got him six weeks ago, when his picture popped up on my daughter’s friend’s Instagram account, with the caption “dog available.”  My daughter sent me a picture of the post, and I noticed that she commented “Let me ask my dad” below.  My kid is smart.  She knows who the sucker is.  He got into the trash, peed on the floor, chew up tissue, barked when he was put outside, jumped all over me, and wanted to play fetch forever.

We fell in love with him.  Now we’re doomed.

Yes, I love my dog.

So, exercise, school, dog, and who knows what’s next?  We shall see. 

Go me. 

John

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Find A Way

Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at home, tired from a week of school, working out, studying, doing laundry, constipation, and watching the first 19 episodes of The Walking Dead.  I could never get into zombies, but I was starting to feel like one, although I only bite someone's head off if they look at me wrong...or text me telling me that I need to go to the gym.  As I sat there, growling and snorting, thinking of food, my Coachzilla texts me to ask me what time I was going to work out. Since it was Labor Day the next day and I didn't have class, I told her that I was going to go then, and take Sunday off.

Yeah, right...

I don't remember how the next text message went, as it was apparently traumatizing, but it seemed like it was saying, "if you don't plan on going, you're not going to go, and if you don't go you're a weenie, and so you better go, and when you go, just go some more, and life is full of puppies, kittens and rainbows, and wonderful, you weenie...go, go, go, go.....

AAAGH!!!!  Alright!

So I went.

I was mad.

I was so mad I got on the treadmill walked fast, and DEFIED her instructions to do an easy workout.  She told me to do 30 minutes.  I DID 60.  SO THERE.  HA HA.

In the 31st minute, as I began to approach code blue status, I slowed down the machine and was a little more relaxed, having rid myself of the stresses that climb on board like a bunch of holiday travelers on an Amtrak train, all wanting the same seat.  I breathed easier and watched the closed-captioned television programs on the monitors above to catch up on what's happening in the real world with no zombies (that we know of).

I saw this lady on the news, dressed in a swimsuit and jumping into ocean water to begin swimming.  I said to myself, "that's Diana Nyad...it looks like she's going to try it again."  The "it" was swimming from Havana, Cuba, to Key West, Florida, a distance of over 100 miles, and it was her fifth attempt.

Most people associate Diana Nyad with the numerous failed attempts to swim the strait between Cuba and Florida, but don't realize that an inability to cover the distance was not the reason she couldn't finish.

The distance was no big deal.  She had more than enough talent and skill and endurance to make it happen.

It was one specific obstacle:  Jellyfish.
These stupid jellyfish would take a toll on her, stinging her as she swam by causing everything on her body to swell.  Even her lips were swollen. That's what happens when you kiss jellyfish, I guess.

Finally, she and her team were able to figure out a way to overcome the jellyfish through the use of protective gear developed for that purpose. Now, it might have taken 35 years to figure it out, but she figured it out, and, as you can see from the picture, she made it.


Her words of wisdom?  Keep living your dream and if you're not living it...find a way.

Three simple words:  Find a way.

Obstacles are like those jellyfish.  They sting you and you look like crap going through the journey, but you adapt, and over time they don't bother you so much, although Diana walked like a zombie coming out of the water after 53 hours.

Whether it's swimming, fighting zombies, or losing weight:  You find a way...even if that means having someone text you to call you a weenie for not working out.

Go me...

John

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John's Progress

Perfect Storm?

After two weeks of school, working out five days a week, coordinating transportation, trying to maintain a reasonable diet, I can say that I'm rather tired.  But I've lost 15 pounds, got through an automobile crisis, managed to get everyone where they needed to be, and have taken five quizzes, scoring A's on all of them.

Right now, my life can be best described as a fishing boat, fighting through a storm, getting over one huge wave with an even bigger one coming up on the horizon.

I don't know much about fishing, but I would imagine that the captain of that boat would breathe a sigh of relief after getting over that wave, take a quick break to get his senses together and to pray that whatever it is that he needs to get over the next wave at that moment in time is there when he needs it...

Times like this cause me to reflect on the words of a song that I first heard a long time ago...

The anchor holds, though the ship is battered
The anchor holds, though the sails are torn
I have fallen on my knees, as I faced the raging seas
The anchor holds, In spite of the storm

And it's in these moments that my Anchor holds...

Go me...

John

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Hopin' Change

My last nine weeks have been a whirlwind of change.  Getting consistent at exercise, watching my diet, learning once again to rise before the worms, and now topping it off by starting back to college has been challenging, to say the least.

I did see a man in a dress yesterday at school, which signifies how much things have changed, but that wasn't what I was looking for.  His/her nails were nice though. 

So I have all this, in addition to all the other fun stuff we have as a family, such as playing the old favorite, “Now What?” 

Murphy's Middle Name Is Aloysius?

With Mr. Edward A. Murphy laughing from up above as we prove his Law to be indisputable on a daily basis, it just so happened on the Sunday evening before the first day of school, I noticed a pool of water on my driveway as I took off for the gym.  I didn’t really think much of it because it’s a hundred and sun degrees in Fresno in the middle of August, so I merely dismissed the water as condensation from the air conditioner on the truck.  On my way to the gym, I stopped at a minimart to grab a Zone bar to eat before working out and was in and out quickly.  I jumped back into my truck, started it up.  Right away, I noticed a strange sound coming out of the engine compartment, which not a new sound.  It made me nervous, but the truck seemed to run okay, so I kept on to the gym. 

One hour later I finished my workout and walked (staggered) back out to the truck and started it up.  The noise was still there; not very assuring in the least.  As I drove home, I noticed that the noise was getting louder and I was getting more concerned. 

Then I got home.  The spot of water that was on the ground was still there, which was odd since it was a 95-100 degree day.  If it was water, it’d be gone.  My first thought was “oh, no.” 

I was right…it wasn’t just water; it had oil in it.  I then started to breathe harder than I did when I was killing myself on the treadmill an hour before.  I had no clue as to what it could be, but it didn’t look good.  So far, it wasn’t a big pool of oil/water/blood, so I thought that it could wait until the following day. 

I was able to put it out of my mind until after I went to bed.  I had difficulty sleeping.  I don’t know if it was because of the next day or if it was the big cup of coffee that I had earlier in the evening.  I got up about 1:30 in the morning, and with all the anxiety of school upon me and having read about a meteor shower taking place that night, I decided to go outside and take a look underneath the chassis for a leak and maybe see a meteor while I was outside. 

No meteors.  Big leak, though. 

In fact, it was a massive leak underneath the engine, flowing halfway down the driveway, like blood from a Dexter Morgan murder scene.  If my truck were a human it’d be the crime of the century. 

I went back to bed and got into the fetal position, cried, and sucked my thumb, writhing back and forth waiting for someone to call an exorcist.  Fortunately, the beer that I drank kicked in and I was able to go to sleep.  

Three hours later, I woke up at 5:00 am to start my day...I wasn't looking forward to it.  In the mirror I looked like a mix between a basset hound and Walter Mondale the day after he lost the presidential election to Ronald Reagan.  Pretty scary.

Monday, The First Day...Only 18 Weeks To Go

After arranging for a backup vehicle in the event that I couldn’t get my truck running that day, and texting a couple of friends for favors, and after having one friend take my wife to work and my daughter to school, all this before 6:00 am, and then limping in the truck to the mechanic and have him drop me off at school, and sitting through six hours of school, and having my daughter’s boyfriend give me a ride back to the shop to pick up my truck after giving her a ride to practice, and asking my dad to cover the bill for me until I get some extra cash, I could finally call it a day. 

Change is good, unless it’s all you have in your pocket. 

What's Up With Hope And Change?

President Obama coined the change thing when he used “hope and change” as his mantra for the 2008 presidential election campaign, and many people “drank the Kool-Aid” of his hope and change message.  For those with an “R” beside your name, don’t be shouting “YES” at my comments.  The R’s use the same hope and change message to sway their constituents to get to the polls for their own job security and drink a different flavored Kool-Aid. 

The reason President Obama did so well in his bid to become President was that his message was comprised of something that really crosses all boundaries, whether it be socioeconomic, cultural/racial, male/female, or even political. 

Being young, energetic and black was also a good chemistry for change as well.  It was time for something new, and while I didn’t vote for him and don’t agree with his politics, I believe it was a good day for this country when he was sworn in because he took away all the excuses of how hard it is to succeed in this country. 

Now anyone who thinks that one man in Washington is going to change your world overnight is sadly mistaken.  I think that lady in Florida who said she won’t have to worry about her car payment or her rent is still waiting by the mailbox for something to come through. 

It’s a good thing that most people believe in the hope and change message more than they believe in the messenger.  That’s the way it should be, because it’s just not possible for anyone who has little to no vested interested in our personal success can do anything for us.  All they can do is pass on the message and hope that we do the best we can with what we receive. 

Hope and change is a powerful motivator; it’s also ear-tickling if all you want to do is feel warm and tingly by hearing those warm and fuzzy speeches.  Hearing but not doing always leads to the same result, or worse. 

That’s because hope can’t be developed unless there is change.  And that takes hard work. 

The message becomes magic when we put the effort behind it. 

Change Through Hard Work - What A Concept!

I saw a Facebook post from someone of a YouTube video of Ashton Kutcher, who gave a speech a few nights ago when he won a Teen Choice Award for something – I don’t know what it was – he said it was for being an old guy, but he said something that was quite profound and it changed my attitude about him for the better, although I’ve always enjoyed watching him on television. 

He touched on three things which resonated with me:  Opportunity, being sexy, and building a life. 

(By the way, it should be noted that his speech is going viral in the midst of Oscar talk for his portrayal of Steve Jobs in the latest biopic.  His choices moved him to the top of his game, while at the same time, the choices of one of his co-stars from "That 70's Show" led to her being found dead yesterday at a drug treatment center.  Everyone knows his name; few people remember Robin Kelly's name.)

Opportunity

Opportunity looks like a lot of hard work.  When he was 13, he had his first job helping his roofer dad carry shingles up to the roof.  He then had a job washing dishes at a restaurant, followed by a job at a grocery store deli, and then by a job at a Cheerio’s factory, sweeping Cheerio dust off the ground.  No job was ever beneath him, and he always considered himself lucky to have a job.  Each job was stepping stone to the next job, and he never quit any job until he had another job lined up, and we all know what happened to him by his repetition of that pattern. 

For me...the opportunity is college and exercise. 

I took the opportunity to go back to school because of a few bad breaks that I’ve had the past couple of years.  Certain things fell into place which enabled me to do this and I’m taking advantage.  This opportunity is hard work.  I have about a hundred pages to read by next Monday to be on top of my game if I want to get an “A.” I’m not in it to just pass. 

As I mentioned earlier in earlier posts, I also have a friend who is willing to commit herself to my well-being and walk alongside me as I work toward changing my health for the better.  To say that that opportunity is not hard work has not met Coachzilla. Trying to slide an excuse past her is not just hard work...it's mission impossible.  I should benefit from this "opportunity," right? 

I also regard my ability to walk as an opportunity to take advantage of exercise and improving my overall sense of well-being.  I made a commitment when I was last laid up in bed that I would do something about my health when I was able to walk once again. 

Being Sexy

Kutcher said that the sexiest thing in the world is being really smart, thoughtful and generous. Everything else is crap that people try to sell us to feel less valuable than we really are. 

Well, I’m pushing for “A’s” so if that makes me sexy, so much the better.  I’d rather lose the weight and try for that, too.  By the way, I’m 65 pounds down and on my way down. 

Building A Life

As young people, we are told that the world is the way it is and that our goal in life should be to try to live inside that world created for us.  We’re told to stay out of trouble, get an education, find a good job, start a family, and live life according to way things are.  The truth is that we live life in a world that was designed by people who are no smarter than us.  Sometimes the biggest battle is between our ears, a result of the input that we received from well-meaning friends and relatives who think they know your inadequacies better than you do.

Change is subtle, either good or bad, depending on what it is that you do.  I tell my daughter most fortunes are lost a dollar at a time, especially when she makes a trip to Taco Bell because she doesn’t want to eat what’s in the refrigerator.  Stuff like television and surfing the internet takes me away from studying, and I’ve already battled the Seinfeld “Summer of George” syndrome, when it’s easy to watch television instead of read.  And, the same thing applies when potato chips are brought into the house, when I’m trying to stay away from that junk.  Every pound I fail to lose is a delay in reaching my fortune.  Good health is priceless, and much more than any monetary fortune is worth.  It would do me some good to look at potato chips as lost opportunities in a bag. 

I think a good strategy for most people would be to save your money, eat right, and go to school and get smart, and then you can be rich and sexy too. 

A dollar at a time, a minute at a time, or a chip at a time...it doesn’t matter.  It all adds up a little bit at a time, for good or bad, for good or better, or bad to worse.  It’s our choice.  Change takes place a little bit at a time, and before you know it, you have hope.

Go me...

John

 

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Five Days a Weenie

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been focused on upping the challenge (that is, having it upped for me) of getting in a daily ritual with me any my treadmill. My workout partner Christina (or "Coachzilla," which is my term of endearment for her) has been keeping me on track and making sure that I only don't push myself beyond code blue. As a macho remnant, I do tend to want to do more than I should at times, to which I get a stern "no" from "Christina."  
Unfortunately, it doesn't work the other way around. If I say "no" then it's "too bad" from "Coachzilla."

I'm up to five times a week now but my speed isn't anything to brag about. Usain Bolt runs a 100 meter dash in the time it takes me to walk ten steps, but that's okay. Sometimes I get up to 2.0 MPH for 2-3 minutes, but for the most part, it's 1.0 MPH for 60 minutes...60 minutes which I wasn't able to do earlier this summer.

My knees still feel like they have knives sticking in them when I bend them, but that's bound to improve with time and strengthening...and ice.

Now that I have all this going, with the fall semester of college approaching, I have this time dilemma now, which involves juggling one vehicle between three people, in three different directions, since our hooptie car is down for the count. After our Monday midday workout, I lamented to Christina about my situation and she asked me what I thought about going to the gym at 5:30 in the morning. According to her, my eyes glazed over and I looked like I was in a state of shock, and I stammered some type of excuse about 5:30 in the morning being of the devil or something like that. Coachzilla kicked in and the battle was over.

By the way, Coachzilla is a play on two words - Coach and Godzilla - for those who need the explanation. In the movies, Godzilla crushed Tokyo. In real life, Coachzilla crushes excuses. The excuses are like Tokyo - they can be pretty big, but they don't stand in the way for long.

I'll spare the gory details, but somehow she managed to get me thinking that I could do this, and would meet me at 5:30 the following morning.

That night, I felt like I did when I took a statistics final in college 35 years ago. I felt totally unprepared for it, and all I could do was stress about it, and when I finally got to sleep, it was all I could do to stay asleep. Then I woke up at 3:30 the following morning, and after being up for an hour, I felt great...distress. To add insult to injury, I had another hour before I had to be at the gym.

I failed to mention one more thing...if I didn't do this, Coachzilla said that she would make it her mission in life to tell the world what a weenie I am if I didn't do this. She would even learn to blog to accomplish this.

I don't want people to know I'm a weenie.  I'm already a weenie, but I'd rather keep that to myself.

When I failed my statistics final, my professor said to me, "You do better luck next times," in his incredibly thick Chinese accent. He didn't call me a weenie.  

We got out to the treadmills and Christina made it easy on me, only working me for 40 minutes instead of an hour.  I was okay with that. Coachzilla was taking the day off, knowing it was a stretch for me to be there.

When the week was over, I managed to make it to the gym every morning that week, and I even added an extra day on Saturday, as I needed to get some calories burned for a wedding that evening; I heard they were serving barbecue, and I'm glad I did the extra day. Physically, I had a tough time at the wedding because I'm still overcoming a lot of pain. I would have loved to line dance, but the knees wouldn't allow it. I did get my barbecue and cake pop, though.

One thought: The best thing about last night was how I was able to witness the miracle of God in the way He brings two wonderful young people together to start a new life as a couple. When I think back about all that He did to bring my wife and I together 33 years ago, from opposite ends of this country...it's mind blowing to think what events had to happen in order for that that happen.

If He can do that, He can grant me the grace needed to get over this weight thing...

Speaking of the weight thing:  I wish I could say the weight falling off like crazy, but it's steady, and as long as it's steady I'm good...I'll know more tomorrow morning, when I weigh in. Christina will be happy with the result or Coachzilla will be having a weenie roast. Time will tell.

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John

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Commitment and Fridays

I'm getting out to the gym late Friday evening, but as long as I'm making it...

Commitment is very simple to keep but not easy to accomplish. There will be some moments where everything is set against you to keep you from reaching your goal.

I've been stuck at home today, and now it's late in the day, so I'd rather be in bed, but I made a promise to myself to keep to this and get my 60 minutes in on the treadmill.

When you decide to do it no matter what, even if it's a small amount, it all adds up.

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John

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Ow

I got up this morning with astonishingly great ease, had a cup of coffee and a couple of pieces of toast, anticipating my trip to the gym to tackle my biggest challenge so far after starting back on the ol' horse, er, treadmill.

My goal today: 60 minutes.

I got started and within two minutes realized that this was going to be a difficult 60 minutes. Within ten minutes my knees were aching and the back of my thighs were tightening up. But I kept going. It wasn't anything new that I was experiencing, so I didn't feel the need to stop.

Well, truth be told, I did feel the need, but I always feel the need to stop even before I start.

Since I recognized the pain and it was muscles just not cooperating and I figured it would get better within a few minutes.  

At 30 minutes, my knees were now feeling like ice picks were being jabbed into them and my legs were tightening up even more. I was worried about how I was going to get off that treadmill without having to bend my knees.    

But I made it and was able to slide off the treadmill and walk like Frankenstein over to a chair and sit down.

I got home and spent the day recovering, drinking lots of water and enjoyed a bottled margarita that I discovered in my refrigerator. To no surprise, I did have a nice nap after that.

It's now almost 10 p.m. and although I'm fatigued, I'm not in any distress, and I'm confident I'll live to see another day. My workout partner demanded that I stay home tomorrow and recuperate. 

Good idea...I will spend tomorrow doing my imitation of a potato.

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John

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School Daze

In my previous blog entry, I mentioned that I was exercising again. In addition to that, I'm taking on an additional project this fall...I'm going back to college. With the economy the way it was and with the challenges that I had physically (making it difficult for me to get out and about), nothing was really happening with work opportunities. I had a couple of good possibilities but they didn't pan out, so I planned for college mostly as a contingency plan, in the event that the work opportunities didn't present themselves. And they didn't. So, it's off to school I go.

The thing that got me down this road was an impulsive decision at the beginning of this year, as I was filling out my daughter's financial application online. I got this idea that since it didn't really take a lot of time to fill out the application, I would fill one out for myself. I figured, "what the heck?"

I took about 15-20 minutes to fill out the financial paperwork (FAFSA application - any parent with college students knows what I'm talking about). I followed that up by getting online with the college to investigate the registration process. My daughter told me that I needed to apply for a student account with the college and then go from there.  The last time I did anything like this, I had to physically walk onto the campus and physically get the paperwork and mail it in.

It's so easy for kids these days.

So I created my college online account, and once I had that done, I checked out some classes and picked out those that would suit me fine, and put them on "wish list" type of section. Selecting classes is like shopping online, where you put your items in your shopping cart, but the difference is that the items you select may or may not be in stock when it comes time to paying.

I did all that was required of me at the time and then it was a matter of waiting for the college to get back with me to give me a date upon which to register. I was given a date of May 10, which was three months down the road. I thought this was fine, that I could register three months before school actually started, being proactive and all the fun stuff that goes with it, until my daughter told me that her registration date was a month earlier than mine. It turns out that returning students get the first pick of classes, and then returning students get the leftovers. I guess it's better than being a slacker. Slackers are those kids who drop out, or get a low GPA, and have to jump through a lot of hoops to get back into school. Colleges are a lot less lenient than they used to be when it comes to that kind of stuff.

So I waited. Thankfully, the day finally arrived and I went online to register. I felt like a 14-year-old girl trying to buy Justin Bieber concert tickets. The classes I picked were FULL.

Eventually, to my surprise, I was able to find some classes which were also simple classes, making it easy for me to ease into the college routine.

Since then, I've been on campus a couple of times to take care of paperwork and to take care of stuff that you need to do to get things in gear. It's a great feeling to be there. As I step on campus, the spirit of matriculation which permeates the air descends upon me, and I feel smarter.

I feel enthusiastic.

I feel hopeful.

And I feel old.

I feel this way when I meet some of the kids that are enrolling with me. Most of them have parents who were little kids when I started college the first time. What amazes me about these kids is how they can wake up in the morning without needing CPR to remind them how to breathe.

Is there something about this generation of young people who refuse to use their lips when they speak?

The other day, I stood in line with one of these students. His elevator obviously didn't ride all the way to the top. My new friend gave me his whole life story within fifteen minutes and was soon giving me pointers on dieting.

Yeah, that was fun.

I don't expect to see him in any of my classes.

I am starting to get excited, even though I couldn't say I was feeling that way a few weeks ago, until I watched a Tom Hanks movie, where his character loses his job and goes back to school and eventually hooks up with his teacher (Julia Roberts).

I really enjoyed this movie - not because he hooks up with Julia Roberts (although that would be pretty cool for most guys), but because it shows how starting over is nothing to be afraid of. In the movie, he learned some new things, made new friends, got a job that he could do well while he was in school, and yeah, the Julia Roberts thing.

It made me realize that in order for me to build a new life, I have to get rid of the crappy foundation upon which I've been trying to build my old life.

So, now that I'm almost as old as the school administration building was when I first started college, I say "here's to rebuilding."

I start August 12.

I wonder if they still sell Chick-O-Sticks at the student bookstore?

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John

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Hope And Dishstress

I was just thinking about how I felt yesterday. I had a harder workout on Friday (two days ago) and thought I overdid it a little. But I woke up yesterday morning and felt pretty good. I decided to do the extra day for about 20 minutes on the treadmill (using a steeper incline, which is really helping my back), check my weight, and then float in the pool for about an hour.

After my 20 minutes, I could actually get off the treadmill without too much pain.

The scale needed to be double-checked: Another 7 pounds gone and now 57 pounds from where I started two years ago, and the lightest I've been in 12 years.

As I floated in the pool, it was the first time I've felt relaxed in quite a while.

Later that day, I was able to do the dishes and stack the dishwasher, although my wife said that can be my job from now on. So I'm still not sure about that victory...

But I am starting to feel a little hopeful, save for the dishstress.

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John

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Back On The Conveyor Belt

I've been encouraged to keep on blogging, so I think a shorter narrative might be more favorable to read and I can sit here and put something down in a few minutes time.  

So what's new with me?  

Exercise!  

I'm back on the treadmill once again.  I reinjured my back a few weeks ago, and was laid up for over a month.  But time heals, and I knew it was time to get back on the old conveyor belt.  

I've been at it for almost four weeks now...but this time I have an accountability partner.  I'm of the opinion that she likes killing me, but she says as long as I don't vomit, pass out or die, then I'm fine. How lucky am I?

I am, however, over the crying part.  It's a work in progress.

Stay tuned...and have a great day...

Go me.

John



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Stepfather Knows Best

My stepfather Gery, an avionics engineer, overseeing a
Gulfstream II jet checkride over Texas, in 1978

It’s Father’s Day 2013…my 23rd, to be exact.  I became a dad in 1991, and I can’t imagine even having a life before that. Kids bring so much excitement and energy into your life, and not a day goes by that I give thanks to God for bringing my two daughters into this world.

And now, 22 years later, I sit here in an empty house, because the two little girls that I love so much are busy today with their own lives, and my wife is working this afternoon, probably trying to get ladies who are out shopping (leaving their husbands at home to watch golf) to buy their heroes a recliner.  Either way, it’s a good day to do some blogging.

Since it’s Father’s Day, this would be a good time to write about my dad, or one of my grandfathers, but I’m taking a different approach this afternoon.  No disrespect to my own father, though.  He has accomplished so much during his life, and still continues to achieve milestones at the ripe old age of 78, for which he turns today on this Father's Day, so before I continue, I just want to say Happy Birthday and Happy Father's Day to my dad!

However, the person who I want to write about is someone who is my other dad:  My stepfather Gery (yes, that’s how it’s spelled), who married my mother when I was a teenager.

To set the stage…when my parents divorced (when I was 10), my mother moved us all back to her hometown of San Antonio.  She was a dedicated mom, focused on raising me and my two brothers, and didn't have time for any other person in her life, dealing with the adjustment of a new life with three boys who were homesick for their own hometown.  Over time, she went out with a couple of gentlemen for a while, and they were both good men.  They were hard-working, educated, and were excellent dads to their own kids. My mom would have done okay had she married either one of them, but it was not to be as she was focused on raising her three boys.  Little did we know the best was yet to come.

After a few years of traveling back and forth between Texas and California, my brothers and I decided (convinced) to stay in California to finish our school. It was a difficult decision, but we believed (again, convinced) it was the best decision for us. I look back on it now, and wish that we stayed with our mom, but you can't go back and change the past, and the friendships we’ve made as a result of our decision are still there today, so I don't have too many regrets on that matter.  Had we stayed, she might have not given Gery the time of day.

Being free of three monkeys (or “house apes” as he affectionately called us), she now had the freedom to meet someone if she wanted.  She was of the mindset that didn’t really need anyone, and I think she believed that when she met Gery.  He had a different opinion, though.  He started "sniffing around" (as he likes to describe it) a couple of months after we moved to California. When my mother and I would talk on the phone, she wouldn’t say much about him at first, but then I started noticing that every time we talked, this Gery guy was there visiting. She was kind of vague at first, saying he was a “friend,” but it was apparent that she had a man in her life, and after a few more phone calls, she finally put him on the line.  It was kind of awkward for a teenager, but Gery didn't seem to mind.  I think he got a kick out of it. He also happened to be ten years younger than my mother, and ten years older than me, so he was still young enough to relate, and old enough to be responsible.  

The first thing I noticed was that he had this deep “Hello” when he spoke, but it was quickly apparent that he was totally at ease with conversing with us.  He chatted like he knew us for years, and we quickly learned that he was a really nice guy, and he really cared for my mother.  This went on for a couple of years, until one day when we received a Christmas card from them, and it said, “Merry Christmas…we got married!”  We were totally surprised, but we were happy for them and even though we had yet to meet Gery, we were confident that she made a good decision.

A few months later, Gery and my mother drove out to California for my high school graduation.  That’s when I met Gery for the first time. He was a long-haired, self-described redneck with a handlebar mustache,, with hazel eyes that twinkled when he smiled (and turned black when he was angry), and I knew right away what she saw in this guy.  We liked him from our conversations on the telephone, but we really liked him after meeting him.  They stayed in California for a week, and I made plans to see them the following Christmas.  I flew out to Texas that December and was in San Antonio for about three weeks, and got to know Gery well during this time.  We spent many nights talking about everything we could think of, and he shared stories with me that proved that he was a pretty normal guy growing up, in spite of the challenges he had with his dad(s).  It turned out that his own father died when he was young, and his mother was married a couple of times, with the third and final marriage to a career military man.

This military man (after some head-butting with a stubborn teenager) became the rock in Gery’s life.  He passed away before I had the chance to meet him, but I saw how much it broke Gery’s heart when it happened.

Another memorable moment during my Christmas trip came was when we stopped by his work, and he took us in to meet some of the guys in his department.  This is how we know that he considered us something special.  He introduced us to his coworkers as "my boys."   He barely knew us, yet was willing to call us as his own.

After the holidays, I came back to California but soon made a decision to move back to Texas within the next couple of months, and Gery was a big-time factor in my decision.  There were some job opportunities available and I wanted to take advantage of them, so it would require a big commitment on my part.  I was ready to jump at the chance, and I knew that with Gery around, I would be in good hands. Once again, upon arriving in Texas, there were more nights where he stayed up, talking with me until all hours of the night, and then going to work, with little or no sleep, and putting in a ten-hour day.

I lived with them for the next couple of years, until he and my mother left San Antonio for a job that he was offered in Southern California.  I learned how to become self-reliant thanks to him and I realized how much I was going miss him.  I decided to stay in San Antonio and get an apartment, and they moved about a month later.  The day before the move, they packed all their things into a moving van, vacated the house, and spent their last night in San Antonio at a nearby hotel. We spent the evening once again talking about things in general and what the future had to offer for all of us, and the only thing that kept Gery from staying up all night with me was that he had to to drive the next morning.  So we said our goodbyes outside the hotel room on the balcony, and I hugged my mom and told her much I loved her.  I then turned to Gary and when I saw that twinkle in his eye, I realized how much I was going to miss this guy.  I hugged him, and he hugged me back hard and "I love you and I'm proud of you."  He had poured so much of himself into me in the short time we had together, but it made the biggest difference in my life.

In January 1991, he called me; I thought it was odd that he would be calling, but my mother had been sick and it concerned me when I heard his voice.  In a broken voice, he told me my mother wasn’t doing well and that the doctors said she would be fortunate to make it past the springtime.  Not wanting to put any unnecessary burden on us, he didn't press the issue of me coming out to Texas until that time, but my brothers and I knew that time was of the essence and, hard as it was, we decided to go out there to spend some quality time with her before the end came. My brothers arrived on a Monday, and I arrived the following day.  We spent about an hour with her that day, and it was our last time together.  She went back to bed and went to sleep; Gery tended to her every need during that that time.  Little did we know that it was our last time with our mother.  For the next couple of days, he was at her bedside, waiting for the inevitable.  When she passed, he came out of the room with tears in his eyes, but with a small smile on his face as if to say “she's okay now,” and told me that she was gone.  It was difficult to watch him for the rest of the day because of the heartache he was going through, but after finally getting to bed and getting some much needed sleep (even if it was only about 3-4 hours), he was up the next day making arrangements for her funeral.

Gery made it out to California after my oldest daughter was born three months later, and that was the last time we physically saw each other.  We still talk on the phone regularly, although not as much as we should.  Each time, I have to make sure that I block out three or four hours to talk and to be near a electrical plug so I can keep my phone charged.  He’ll still stay up until 3 a.m. if I let him, and our conversations never end without saying “I love you.”

I’ve written so much…and it’s still not enough.  I can’t recall a bitter moment between the two of us. Sure, he can go into “dad-mode” and be irritating like dads can be, but I can’t recall a time where I’ve been mad at him.  If he has a fault, it’s that he tries to do too much, and that’s a good fault to have.  The times that we have spent together have been fantastic, and we've shared so many laughs over the years. And I'm a better man for having him in my life.

Happy Father's Day, Gery.  I love you.

Taking Heat in San Antonio

Sebastien De La Cruz

I am far from being politically correct.  In fact, I am more conservative than a lot of my friends and especially among people of my own ethnicity.  But there are some things that just rub me the wrong way and it should do the same to others.

Since my favorite professional basketball team is in "The Finals," as it is now known, synonymous with the Super Bowl and the World Series, I was naturally excited to see my team, the San Antonio Spurs, make it back home to face the Miami Heat in the third game of this series.  Living in Fresno, California, in the shadow of San Francisco Giants baseball and 49er football, I love to see the games broadcast from San Antonio because I consider San Antonio my second home.  I lived there for a few years as a boy and as a young adult, and have many fond memories of the Alamo City, along with its people and culture.

This evening, due to a last-minute scheduling issue with the original singer, a local boy was asked to fill in at the last minute to sing the National Anthem.  Sebastien de la Cruz is a 11-year-old who has already received national attention through his talent on a network television singing competition, and when asked to do this for the Spurs organization, he was more than happy to do so.

His talent:  He is a 11-year-old mariachi singer.

At the beginning of the game, there he was, in his mariachi outfit ready to belt it out, and he did very well, although he had a couple of rough patches patches where he changed key.  Coming from a music background, I tend to catch small details like that, but in fairness to him, it is very difficult to sing in an sports arena a capella, and I'm more than confident that he nails it when performing with the guitars, violins, and trumpets serenading behind him.   But a job well done, nevertheless.  I'll take him over the girl in Miami any day.

But Simon, Paula, and Randy could never be as tough on him as those who were critical in the cyberworld due to one issue:  His ethnicity - and his mariachi suit.

I'll save you the details, but the racial overtones directed at this young boy were beyond ludicrous.  The Twitter world was buzzing with so many racial slurs directed at this young boy.  This professional singer, however, takes it all in stride and his only concern is how exciting it was to be able to sing at Game 3.

What the heck is wrong with people?

Given it's current political climate, San Antonio would appear to be a politically correct city, so as to shove the Mexican culture down people's throats, as if to say, "Hey, look at us!  We're Mexicans and we live here too!"  The fact is that San Antonio's Mexican culture has always been synonymous with San Antonio and what it stands for.  It thrived in spite of a liberal or conservative climate.  San Antonio's people, like those in Texas, still have a sense of unity that has been in existence for almost 200 years, made famous at the Battle of The Alamo in its fight for Texas independence.  Many people fail to realize that the men who fought and died at the Alamo were not all rich white men with a lot to lose, but also Mexican and black men who chose to fight alongside them.  Many of the surrounding towns are named for Mexican patriots of Texas who have fought for Texas independence.  

Need more proof?  Try this for size.  The names of the four missions that were established there before the existence of any city are named:

Mission Concepcion (established as Misión Nuestra Señora de la Purísima Concepción de Acuña in 1716).
Mission Espada (established as Misión San Francisco de la Espada in 1690).
Mission San Jose (established as Misión San José y San Miguel de Aguayo in 1720).
Mission San Juan Capistrano (established originally as Misión San Jose de los Nazonis in 1716).

That's pretty Mexican if you ask me.

I loved living in San Antonio for not only the culture, but also the celebration of what San Antonio was all about.  Mexican restaurants, the River Walk, Fiesta Week, La Villita, the Hemisfair, along with mariachi, flamenco, and folklorio music were what gave me wonderful memories of what San Antonio was and is all about.  Country-Western muslc and Tex-Mex music was what I enjoyed as a young adult, and stopping at a barbacoa stand on the west side or a fish fry restaurant on the east side were all experiences that I can never forget. I can still taste barbecued brisket while drinking a Big Red soda as a kid (or Lone Star beer as an adult). Of course, going to an actual Spurs game at the old Hemisfair Arena as a 13-year-old was something I never forgot, and to this day I continue to cheer on my Spurs.

So, to those complaining about the little mariachi kid singing at an American basketball game:  Unless you live in San Antonio, stick it up your twitter hole.  You don't know a darn thing.

By the way, I failed to mention one thing...Darius Rucker, an African-American who sings country music, was supposed to originally sing the National Anthem.  What then?

Either way, San Antonio wins!  Nobody messes with Texas!  Go Spurs!

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