Dichos y Refranes
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Dichos y Refranes
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El Que No Oye Consejo No Llega A Viejo

El Que No Oye Consejo No Llega A Viejo | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
“This time baby I’ll be bullet proof.”

How many of us would not like to make this statement with utter certainty? Could we, who knows how much farther our self-inflicted thresholds for pain and drama could expand. Certainly beyond any current limitations, learned or otherwise, we’ve placed on ourselves until now. Those points we all reach where we know not even another single step is possible without certain demise or at least a very undesirable and unpleasant experience afterwards.

And though La Roux’s rendition of Bullet Proof, like so many other songs, is every bit the anthem for the sexiness of a carefree existence, life always has a way of knocking us back down to reality where the old adage of el que no oye consejo no llega a viejo still stands accurate...
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Del Dicho Al Hecho Hay Mucho Trecho

Del Dicho Al Hecho Hay Mucho Trecho | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Why? Because it is easier to make empty promises sometimes than it is to actually recognize what we are doing wrong. If nothing else, it takes much less time and energy to say what we think others want to hear, instead of what we really want to say to them. How many a heated arguments could not have been avoided were we just to let our guard down and our pride to one side?

There is something about the idea of being right that makes us resort to the most childish of behaviors, often the very one even our own parents who gave life to us could not stand, because when it is all said and done, what we really care about is being able to say I told you so! Hard as we may want to avoid this sentiment or claim that we are too mature to engage in this behavior, the reality is when our blood begins to boil, our brows can no longer furrow, and our eyes are done with the rolling, we no longer care about rhyme or reason. All we want to do is get the last word in. Be it with a spouse, a sibling, a friend, a coworker, or anybody else, it doesn’t matter...
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A Camino Largo, Paso Corto

A Camino Largo, Paso Corto | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Wind in my hair. Dreams in my mind. Joy in my heart. Behind the wheel of my very own car for the very first time. Not a loaner. Not a hand me down. Not the back seat of my brother’s maroon Chevy Impala where every day after school I’d be accused of tilting the car to one side by him and his stupid friends: four-foot tall Perla, la pelona, Edwin and Edith, the twins, our randy and pimply neighbor Victor and a whole lot of other stupid kids from our high school. No sir! This car was all mine. I’d worked all summer mixing paints, putting up with crazy customers, stocking shelves, and running shopping carts inside of Walmart to scrounge up enough money to make a down payment. One thousand dollars to be exact.

At 16, without a lot of car dealers willing to sign me up for a loan, I’d managed to find a small mom-and-pop shop willing to give me a shot. They needed the money and I needed the car. With my mother huffing and puffing all the way there, we’d stopped at the bank, collected my money, and signed on the dotted line as cosigners for my 1989 grey, four door, Ford Taurus. Ay mijo are you sure you can afford to buy a car right now? You are so young, you’re only 16, I don’t know if you are going to be able to make all these payments. Pero bueno, si no entiendes (if you won’t understand – she still uses guilt like nobody’s business to get her points across) I’ll go ahead and sign for you, but I want you to keep up with this responsibility. This is no joke...
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Más Sabe El Diablo Por Viejo Que Por Diablo

Más Sabe El Diablo Por Viejo Que Por Diablo | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
One day I’d be somebody. One day I’d make enough money to stop wanting what everyone else had. One day my day would come, and it’d be shiny and new, expensive, cherry red, big, with lots of rooms, a pool in the backyard, flashy, classy, the works, like those people in the telenovelas, just like the two and three story mansions in River Oaks we’d go trick or treating at every Halloween. Racing to beat each other to the next house, grabbing handfuls of entire candy bars of chocolate, throwing them in our plastic bags of grocery stores like Fiesta and Krogers, pushing each other, fighting, laughing, and finally racing back to Pera and her van to hold our bags up in the air, measuring to see who had gotten the most candies. On the drive back my brothers and I would stuff ourselves with as many sweets as we could before my father would make us sit on the dining room table, sifting out even the most partially-opened candies...
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En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas

En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Possibly not, but sometimes the temptation of participating in some juicy gossip is much stronger than the will to avoid those friendly individuals with such loose, almost venomous, tongues. Especially when the subject matter at hand deals with a particular person of whom we are not very fond. But who is more enamored with the art of gossiping, really: men or women?

According to my wife, us men are much more addicted to the sport of unmeasured words, sharing many more indiscretions with each other than our supposed more fragile female partners. In fact, in her opinion, we tend to gossip a hell of a lot more, we just don’t do it right! A woman knows how to share only what she wants to, and measures her words very carefully before saying them. A man, on the other hand, just gets brave after a couple of beers…and later laments what he let slip out. The truth is, and guys let me apologize now for letting this cat out of the bag, as much as I hate to admit it, the more I think about it, I realize she is actually right. Personally, I’ve uttered so many of my own truths during inebriated stupors that I don’t even know anymore how many of my secrets my buddies actually do know. As an adult, embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve even cried in front of grown men, something I would have never, ever done without the encouragement of a few beers...
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Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo

Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
There were many things unfamiliar to us in the big city. For eight years we’d known nothing but the sandy roads where my brothers and I spent countless hours making up imaginary games; long stretches of shrub and snake-infested woods we’d walk through to collect drinkable water from the local well; friendships no further than our own home; the one bedroom whitewashed house with dark brown trimming we all shared; and the harmonious choir-practicing my sisters did in front of the mirror with their hairbrushes. Our lives in McCook were quite simple.

Everyone in our ranch went to the same schools, as well as the same church, grocery stores, retail centers, and park in the town of Edinburg, about an hour away. For our Christmas shows at McCook Elementary local farm workers, mostly Mexicans, including my parents, and farm owners, mostly white, shared the same cafetorium where their kids normally ate lunch, to watch the simple plays put together by teachers like Ms. Keller and Ms. Valdez. One year I was a care bear and my only line was to say C is for caring. After much stuttering and panicked sweating I managed to get the words out of my mouth and nervously knelt on the stage where my teachers had told me to. For these special occasions my mother would bring sugar cookies as her contribution to the pot luck feastings, but rarely touched any of the offerings set out by any of her neighbors. We were all much too timid to eat amongst our better off neighbors and bosses, after all these were the ladies that paid my mother $15 a day to clean their homes...
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Nunca Sabes Lo Que Tienes Hasta Que Lo Pierdes

Nunca Sabes Lo Que Tienes Hasta Que Lo Pierdes | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Accidents, I’ve had more than I care to admit. Some of them my fault, others, believe it or not, not my fault at all, just the product of bad luck, or karma – one of the two. For better or for worse, when the Texas Department of Public Safety and I entered into our marriage of wits it was until death do us part, at least for me, or until I moved out of state. A few times we’ve been at the brink of despair, heading for “Splits-Ville,” especially at the inception of our story together, but we’ve always managed to pull through. No laughing matter, simply all I can do to hold back from crying...
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Perro Que Ladra No Muerde

Perro Que Ladra No Muerde | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Solo Vino, Fidolice, and Miclo all names of friends of the four-legged kind who have been a part of my life at one point or another. None of them entirely too brave. Solo Vino, I can’t even remember when we made our memories together.

My parents decided that would be the most appropriate name for you since one day you just showed up out of nowhere (Solo Vino = Showed Up On Your Own). We fed you and you decided to stay. When we headed back to the States you became the keeper of my grandparents and their land. If anyone so much as stepped within your peripheral vision the roaring strength of your woofs could be felt for miles, as far down as the arroyos. You growled, you howled, you forced yourself against the power of the iron fence, and paced wildly until your warnings were heeded, but you never actually attacked anyone...
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En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas

En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Posiblemente no, pero la tentación de escuchar un buen chisme a veces es más fuerte que el impulso por mantenerse uno alejado de las malas lenguas. Especialmente cuando la indiscreción al frente tiene que ver con alguien a quien no le guardamos mucho afecto. ¿Pero quienes realmente somos más chismosos: los hombres o las mujeres?

De acuerdo a mi esposa, nosotros los hombres somos mucho más lenguas sueltas que el mentado sexo débil femenino. Incluso, a su opinión, chismeamos mucho más que nuestras parejas, pero no lo hacemos bien. Una mujer sabe como compartir solo lo necesario, y piensa antes de hablar. Un hombre nomás se echa unas cuantas cervezas y después se arrepiente de lo que dijo. Lo cierto es que por más que lo he negado, me doy cuenta que realmente sí tiene razón. En lo personal, a mí en el cotorreo se me han salido tantas cosas que ya ni sé cuales de todas mis verdades son las que mis compadres no conocen. Ya de adulto, he hasta llorado entre hombres, algo que nunca hubiera hecho sin el efecto de algunas cuantas cervecitas...
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A Dios Rogando Y Con El Mazo Dando: On Immigration Reform

A Dios Rogando Y Con El Mazo Dando: On Immigration Reform | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Gente of this United States of America it seems the time to stand up and demand change has finally arrived. After years of failed attempts to get an immigration reform act approved by the U.S. Congress, broken promises by multiple presidents, and now the introduction of a state law so aggressive it would all but force undocumented immigrants living in Arizona to flee for their safety and freedom, we can officially say diplomacy has failed.

While Senate bill 1070 sits on the desk of Arizona Governor Jan Brewer (R) awaiting a final decision by her to either approve or veto, President Barrack Obama has yet to indicate any clear position on the passage of this new law. His promises of bringing millions of illegal immigrants “out of the shadows” through some type of immigration reform now appear to have been only empty words, evoking in many of us the urge to take part in civil disobedience demonstrations. Arizona has become our ground zero in this fight to once and for all settle the state of limbo in which an estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants live each and every day of their lives in the Unites States...
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Borron Y Cuenta Nueva

Borron Y Cuenta Nueva | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
An infant in one arm; a toddler in the other; nothing but rubber underneath, shaped in the form of a tube; separating danger from hope. In a tiny bag all her belongings, clothing and a few dollar bills. All the coyote had told her before loading them on that makeshift raft was “don’t move a muscle or you and the children are dead.” As she sat praying for dear life, doubting her own decision, the rejection of that divided river could be felt against her entire soul. Telling her she was not wanted, enticing her to give up. She did nothing but squeeze harder on the legs of her children and stare fixedly without so much as a wink at the tube behind her carrying her two eldest daughters. A moment later they were all on the other side.

That side her mother had implored her so much to forget. The one her brother called her crazy for wanting to immigrate into. Her two youngest boys were citizens of the United States, but know they were also mojados...
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Aquel Que Tiene Fe No Está Nunca Solo

Aquel Que Tiene Fe No Está Nunca Solo | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
The existence of faith and God are two things I’ve often doubted.

Not so much for lack of understanding – my parents did an excellent job instilling the fear of God in all of their children – but because of simple disbelief. To say that as of today my Confirmation in Catholicism has not taken place. My parents did enroll me in the appropriate catechism classes as a teenager, but after months of skipping the Sunday gatherings at Assumption Catholic Church the priest pulled me and my brother aside one day to ask us one simple question: name me one of the seven holy sacraments, he implored...
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De Tal Palo, Tal Astilla

De Tal Palo, Tal Astilla | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Higueras, duraznos, naranjas, hierbabuena, Piquin, and romero are just a few of the plants that come to mind when I think of my mother’s gardens throughout the years. Everywhere she’s ever lived she’s left a tropical paradise behind. None more so than at the last house we shared before I went my own way.

Picture purple leaves, sprawling through the ground, greens of every tone dancing in the wind, running parallel to the curving sidewalk on either side, trees taller than grown men whispering in your ears, roses by the dozen lining the entrance of our home, the scent of orange and peach, rosemary and mint, greeting you the moment you walked in past our iron gate. That was the home we shared while I was finishing school and getting ready for the rest of my life. It was also the place where I finally understood why my mother is so meticulous about her gardening.

You see, for her, gardening is more than growing plants; it’s about planting seeds and leaving something behind. Something that represents who you are, that let’s people know you were here in this world, and that you cared enough to leave your plot in the...
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Dios Aprieta Pero No Ahoga

Dios Aprieta Pero No Ahoga | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
We watched her sit at the edge of our cement porch, next to the long slender window in our living room, out in the open air of our yard, next to the silver rusted propane tank, sewing our gifts in little spare moments, a little today, more tomorrow, until finally one day they were done and we could play with them outside or anywhere else we wanted.

Almost everything we had she made.

Each curtain in the house, some of them lined with lace, all of my sisters’ nice dresses and blouses, our pillows stuffed with rags, covers quilted together from old clothing people would give us that didn’t fit, crocheted throws on the sofa, embroidered napkins for keeping tortillas warm and entertaining, old blue jeans cut at the knees, made into shorts, even our table cloth was stitched by her. My mother didn’t believe in wasting anything. When my father’s pants were torn or ours had holes in them, she’d patch them up as closely to their original blue jean tone as possible. Even our toys she’d make...
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El Que Se Casa Por Todo Pasa

El Que Se Casa Por Todo Pasa | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Plastic chairs, red, blue, pink, and purple, all lined up, well as neatly as six, seven, eight, nine, and ten years olds could get them. Some had cartoon characters like the Little Mermaid and Cinderella on them, others just flowers and stars. They were the miniature chairs, the kind you’d buy at the 99 Cents store for all of one dollar and seven cents. We’d filed them into place just outside our apartment in front of the dirty green pool gated from us by a simple black chain link fence, three rows and two chairs each. The handouts we’d all collected from school our class assignments in the makeshift classroom we’d prepared.

Usually one of us older kids would play the teacher, although a lot of times we’d fight extensively about who would take on the role before we even began to play. Most of the time I would elect myself and get to order my younger brother and sister, along with our neighbors around, ruler-slapping of their hands and all. At times my orders did become overwhelming for them and they’d gang up on me and overthrow my authority, but even then I knew once they calmed down my return to power would be almost guaranteed...
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Un Buen Padre Vale Cien Maestros

Un Buen Padre Vale Cien Maestros | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
There was something about the way my father’s clothes looked after he came home from work that commanded respect. His shirts dark and sweaty from burning sun, splattered with large, small and extra large specs of hardened black tar, his pants the same, only layered in dirt from kneeling on roofs all day, his shoes, usually boots, massive and heavy. The smell when he walked in our living room was musky and masculine, what a real man’s should be, that’s what I’d think at 10, safe and protected when he was around, we all felt. Quiteme las botas, he’d say. One of us would straddle his boot like a horse and tug as hard as we could, first at the heel, then at the tip, finally, after a great deal of force, both hands at the shaft, one firm last pull and both boot and kid would fall on the floor...
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Madre No Hay Mas Que Una

Madre No Hay Mas Que Una | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
The days my mom would make fried chicken were extra special. For me, they meant racing in and out of the kitchen, predatorily circling, slamming the barely-there screen door, over and over, it creaking, slowly, even when I carefully tried to close it, until my mother would give me the look, which we all knew meant cut it out, ya basta! It wasn’t so much the eyes that were scary, as much as the brows, the way one would furl up while the other slouched down, almost touching the flour-stained red cheek on my mother’s light complexion. No words were necessary when we got that stare.

Our kitchen was long and simple, a tiny stove on one side, a small fridge on the other side, white cabinets, just big enough to fit our food, at the entrance a screen door that might as well have been a revolving door as much as my two brothers and I jumped through it, onto the cement block right below, just before the sandy, sometimes snake-infested, ground. At the other end a handmade, wooden picnic table which we used as a dining table surrounded by tree stumps for chairs. Behind it a single window with a solid maroon, pink and blue polka-dotted curtain; this is where we celebrated birthdays every couple of months, or in some cases every couple of days, with homemade, marmalade-sandwiched, double-layered cakes covered in egg-beaten, color-dyed frosting . My brother was born in March. My sister in June – ten days before me. My other sister in July. My youngest brother in August – nineteen days before my father. And my mother in December. We were all under 13. My two youngest sisters had not been born yet in these, our early days in the Rio Grande Valley...
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Unos Nacen Con Estrella, Otros Nacen Estrellados

Unos Nacen Con Estrella, Otros Nacen Estrellados | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
About us they never knew a single thing. Not the way we woke up every single morning to the scent of huevo con chorizo frying in the kitchen, tortillas freshly made, stacked under a carefully embroidered napkin of white cloth with pink and blue flowers at every corner, both flour and corn. Not the way an occasional allowance of no more than one dollar made us so happy and grateful. Not how good it felt to come home with the clothes we’d picked out for the next school year several months earlier, at the end of every summer when we’d pick them up from layaway, racing back and forth, changing from one outfit to the next, until all three had been paraded around our living room. Or for that matter what the experience of actually shopping for anything new meant to us. To them we were just another family like thousands of others: poor, uneducated, uncultured, with parents that spoke only Spanish, and worst of all stuck in our pitiful existence...
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Haz Bien Y No Mires A Quien

Haz Bien Y No Mires A Quien | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
The Bali Hai Apartments were cheap and they were the closest place to my uncle’s house we had found in the first few days we arrived into Houston.

Unless you peeked through the floor-to-ceiling double curtains in our one bedroom apartment, or one of the younger kids in the house raced through the makeshift clothe doors you couldn’t really see the bunk bed in our dining room. Neither could you tell my mother’s more than six foot tall brother, his wife, and their two children – one boy and one girl – were living in that space. The Bali Hai Apartments were a small complex by all accounts. At most, 30 odd units, all either one or two bedrooms, circled a small eight-shaped pool in the center of the compound. Two months out of the year the water inside the pool was clean enough to swim in. On those days, all of us kids would take turns diving into the murky blue water from the top of a large, black, cave-looking rock, the kind you might find in Hawaii or some exotic place like that, but ours was old, dirty and manmade. The other 10 months of the year the water was green and slimy...
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Más Vale Tarde Que Nunca

Más Vale Tarde Que Nunca | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
There were times I’d lay in my bed wishing things were different. One arm on the side of me, bent upwards underneath my face, the other slightly embracing me, against the world, hands fisted, solemn face, eyes refusing to shut, mind lost. Counting sheep didn’t work. The thoughts inside my head would take over. Before I knew it scenes were forming, people were engaged in dialogue, my own mouth was moving, and exactly what I’d wanted to say was coming right out, like nothing. Aww man why didn’t I say that, I’d scold myself and once again remember what number sheep was I on?

Over and over this routine would continue until either my thoughts were gone, or I’d get up and find something to do to avoid the thinking...
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No Hay Mal Que Por Bien No Venga

No Hay Mal Que Por Bien No Venga | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Regardless, waiting around for a silver lining is incredibly annoying. Few things provoke as much anxiety and impatience as dealing with the unknown, feeling that we are in a state of limbo, or just not knowing why we are having such a long string of bad luck. Above all else we simply want to know how things are going to end up when all is said and done.

Yes, maybe the outcome will not be what we expected, but who among us still believes we, as individuals, do have complete control over our own destinies? Of course the decisions we make and actions we take do impact what happens to us, but there is no way to assert 100 percent that every single plan we make will work out exactly as we envisioned. If that were the case we’d all be walking around with rock hard abs, thick flowing hair, designer duds and genuine smiles on all our faces. Well maybe some of us would choose less vein realizations, but coming from a 5 feet, 8 inches tall “hard to kidnap” fellow I’d say this wish list is a pretty good start (borrowing from comedian Jen Kober now)...
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Quien Bien Te Quiere Te Hará Llorar

Quien Bien Te Quiere Te Hará Llorar | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Not from suffering or heartache, instead from happiness and sadness. After all with every new beginning comes the arrival of another conclusion. Sometimes it is bittersweet, sometimes it is exciting. Cliché or not, nothing actually lasts forever. Sooner or later what we have become accustomed to changes, morphs, or disappears into oblivion, only to be relived and revisited in our distant memories.

New transforms into old. The young trade places with the old, and before we know it we are all grown up, caring for the very beings who gave us life...
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Dias De Mucho, Visperas De Nada

Dias De Mucho, Visperas De Nada | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Maribel, pronounced Mary-Bell instead of the traditional Ma-ri-be-l, that is what she called herself. Short black wavy hair, almost curly, but not – just enough to get wildly tangled after being touched by even a single drop of rain. Dark brown eyes – a window to her many ancestors, some she claimed, others she preferred not to acknowledge. Long and lanky, pale and freckled skin, small breasts, a waist the size zero, dressed and wet she did not weigh more than 98 pounds at most. When Maribel spoke her voice was high and pitchy. Not annoying. Not child-like. Feeble and lady like. Delicate and sensitive, Maribel would often burst into tears for no apparent reason, especially if she felt she was being attacked, confused, mistreated, or if any other of her emotions were being evoked in any way.

A woman of class. A lady. That’s what her friends at the country club called her. When she was honored by them for her years of planning soirees she wore a white bead-encrusted gown, tight at the top, flowing at the bottom. Her hair slicked back accented only by a simple gold necklace and two diamond earrings. After years spent wanting to be accepted, Maribel Roberson-Huerta felt this night was her official induction into high society. Her days of living in the projects of Houston were now a thing of the past...
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El Sol No Se Tapa Con Un Dedo

El Sol No Se Tapa Con Un Dedo | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
Out of all the dichos I’ve ever heard, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, has always been the easiest for me to understand. Not that I haven’t tried my damndest to cover up that metaphorical sun on so, so many different occasions. But somewhere deep down inside of me, like the unyielding passage of time, that tiny voice in my head has always taunted me in the faintest of tones: el sol no se tapa con un dedo…you can’t cover the sun with one finger.

I’ve wanted to tell it to shut up countless times, and a few of them I’ve done so successfully, but eventually it starts up again. El sol no se tapa con un dedo. El sol no se tapa con un dedo. El sol no se tapa con un dedo. Then I have to face reality, evaluate my situation seriously, and endure the harshest of human conditions: being truly honest with oneself. It is at this stage that raw emotion peeks its ugly head, be it in the form of anger, sadness, depression or just plain frustration. I know the process well for I’ve undergone it many a times. Still idling as a bystander on someone else’s grief is much more a difficult feat for me personally to withstand...
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De Suerte Contentos, Uno De Cientos

De Suerte Contentos, Uno De Cientos | Dichos y Refranes | Scoop.it
My mother’s mobile Taqueria was purple. It was wider than most. It was taller than most. We had bought it from a previous owner who utilized it as a small business office. The large double window where we served orders from was an add-on, as were the fixtures inside my father had crafted. We had painted it purple for no good reason other than that was the color my mother had found on sale. When it came time to naming it, we settled on Taqueria Cerritos in honor of the small town in Mexico my parents were from.

We had never owned a business, much less one that required so much from every single member of our family. Early in the dawn hours my mother would awake to begin the process of preparing the food she would sell that day. My father would drive over to the parking lot where our mobile unit was parked and unload the gas tank inside before heading to his real job. Once the tortillas were ready my mother would make trip after trip loading up her car: car, kitchen, car, kitchen, car, kitchen…
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