In the early 1970s, my cousin Mario Castaneda often visited my family’s home in Los Angeles along with his wife and young children. He ’d arrive, as usual, unannounced (Chicano style, Mario would say), and my parents would hastily prepare a snack and bring out cans of pop for the kids. I looked forward to Mario’s visits because he was the only member of our extended family with long hair and who wore bell bottom jeans. He also spoke in a tongue largely foreign to our household, one that connected us to a particular culture Chicano radical chic, let’s say that my parents could never indulge. “Qué pasa, homes?” Mario would greet me. “How’s my little primo doing in la escuela?” He delivered lines like these while cocking his head back slightly to emphasize his Chicanocool detachment. [download]
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