Dusky's Pad » Los Tigres del Norte

Dusky — Sat, 30 Apr 2005 01:55:16 +0000

Today I became a Naturalized United States Citizen. There were about three thousand of us being sworn in, but fourteen received an honorary mention. These were members of the armed forces, “the people who defend our freedom.” Their names, military rank, and country of birth were read. I found it satisfying to hear my mother country’s name, Mexico, read over and over again. I was also reminded of a song…

Translation:

On my way back from visiting my mother country, and as I made my way across the border, an immigration official stopped me and asked to see my immigration documents. As he looked through them I heard him grumble, “with so many immigrants, Americans themselves struggle to find a job.” I retorted the following…

“There’s truth to what you state. Yes, we — Mexican immigrants — have taken jobs away from Americans, but just as we are willing to work a sweat to obtain and maintain our jobs, we’re also the kind to step forward when our names are called for combat. My children were born here. When their country called on them to go to war, they put aside the prejudice they had endured throughout their lives and defended their country to death. They filled the boots and bore the arms that the sons of many white men had refused. Suddenly, nobody questioned their Americanism. It took their blood in combat for them to finally be accepted as Americans. Do you find it unpleasant to see Hernandez written on payrolls? Go ahead and take a look at the list of those missing in action and then get back to me.”

As I screamed all this to him, he could not suppress his tears. Stricken with emotion he said to me, “Go ahead and cross the border this and any other time you please. You’ve certainly earned more than I have.”

Los Hijos de Hernandez (Los Tigres del Norte)
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Regresaba de mi tierra
y al cruzar por la frontera
me pregunta un oficial
que cumpliera mis deberes
que si yo tenía papeles
se los tenía que enseñar.

Y mientras los revisaba
escuché que murmuraba
algo que me hizo enojar;
ya con tantos emigrados
muchos norteamericanos
no pueden ni trabajar.

Le dije muy enojado
eso que tú has murmurado
tiene mucho de verdad.
Los latinoamericanos
a muchos americanos
le han quitado su lugar.

Si, muy duro trabajamos,
tampoco no nos rajamos
si la vida hay que arriesgar;
en los campos de combate
nos han echado adelante
porque sabemos pelear.

Aquí nacieron mis hijos
que ignorando los prejuicios
y la discriminación
su patria los reclamaba
y en el campo de batalla
pusieron el corazón.

Allí nadie se fijaba
que Hernández que ellos firmaban
eran carne de cañón;
quizás mis hijos tomaron
el lugar que no llenaron
los hijos de algun sajón.

Si en la nómina de pago
encuentras con desagrado
mi apellido en español;
lo verás en otra lista
que a la hora de hacer revista
son perdidos en acción.

Mientras esto le gritaba
el emigrante lloraba
y dijo con emoción;
puedes cruzar la frontera
esta y las veces que quieras
tienes más valor que yo.

Dusky — Thu, 10 Mar 2005 13:56:59 +0000

Sixteen years ago this month, I crossed the border into America without documents. I still remember that first time I walked on the driveway of my new home (I had arrived at 1am, I didn’t get a chance to look around). Beautiful homes and cars. Chilly weather. I wondered which way was my hometown, which a three-day bus-ride had left behind. I wondered what was happening back home.

On Monday I went to my naturalization interview (to become a citizen of the United States). I watched the people around me and wondered, “Are we all traitors to our home country?”

After writing down on a sheet of paper, “The day is beautiful” and answering that the fundamental belief of the Declaration of Independence is that “all men are created equal” and that “they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, among them the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” I headed home with mixed feelings. I had been approved, but I couldn’t make-up my mind on whether I was happy, complacent, or maybe even disappointed. Oh, but I was definitely hungry, and like a good Mexican, I called my mother and asked her if she could please cook some chilaquiles (known by some as “poor man’s dish”).

Yeah, I love that about myself. I love how I remain attached to my culture, in spite of the fact that I’ve lived in America more than three-fifths of my life. And watch… one day — as a teacher — I’ll have my kids do a performance on a Cinco de Mayo or a 16 de Septiembre in front of the whole school. My kids will have in me a teacher who has not forgotten where he has been and what he has done. My humble background empowers me.

Translation:

Having had the opportunity to walk on the finely constructed streets of the most prominent cities of the world, I can say without a doubt that no city of the world could ever make me feel what I would feel walking on the streets of my own hometown. Its streets are yet to be paved and its adobe homes are already showing their age, but this doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s the town that witnessed my childhood. As such, it holds a special place in my heart.

It’s sad to have to leave one’s hometown, and even sadder if one’s relatives and friends are not able to make the trip. Fate brings people’s bodies apart, but souls have no concept of distance, time, or boundaries. I think of my relatives and friends just as much now as I did when I had just arrived to America, many, many years ago.

Nostalgia brings me tears, and in my tears I see my town. In my town I see my beloved house, and in my beloved house stands my mother praying to God that I return home safe one day. Her prayers give voice to my own desire, and I know God will come through for us. The almighty knows that every immigrant’s biggest and final wish is to be allowed to die in his town of birth, surrounded by those he loved, and having as pallbearers those who loved him most.

Pueblo Querido (Los Tigres del Norte)
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Hoy me encuentro muy lejos, muy lejos
de la tierra que me vió nacer;
de mis padres y de mis hermanos
y del barrio que me vió crecer.
La nostalgia me destroza el alma
y quisiera volverlos a ver.

El recuerdo se me hace tristeza;
la tristeza me hace llorar;
y entre llantos parece que miro
a mi pueblo y a mi dulce hogar
y tambien a mi madre bendita
que sin duda por mi ha de rezar.

Yo ansío con todo mi ser
regresar a mi pueblo querido.
Y mi Dios me lo ha de conceder
‘pa morirme allá con los míos.

Es muy triste encontrarse ausente
de la tierra donde uno ha nacido.
Y mas triste si no están presente
los amigo y los seres queridos.
El destino nos hizo dejarlos,
más el alma jamás he podido.
Yo he vagado por grandes ciudades,
por sus calles rete bien alumbradas
pero nunca he olvidado a mi pueblo,
ni pienso olvidarlo por nada.
Aunque tenga sus casas de adobe,
y una que otra calleja empedrada

Yo ansío con todo mi ser
regresar a mi pueblo querido.
Y mi Dios me lo ha de conceder
‘pa morirme allá con los míos.

Dusky — Sat, 02 Oct 2004 16:19:42 +0000

Translation:

As much as I tried, I couldn’t fall in love again. You owned my soul and every bit of love my heart was to ever feel for anyone. In fact, this last time you left you took my heart, and in doing so you ridded me of my freewill. I was left with nothing but desires, and now that I find you again, I want to fulfill each and everyone of them. I want to feel your hands caressing my body and your breath warming up my skin. Come to my arms and love me like you used to…

No Pude Enamorarme Más (Los Tigres del Norte)
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(1)
Tú, me robaste el alma.
Tú, me robaste el amor.
Tú, esa vez que te fuiste,
también me dejaste sin mi corazón.

(2)
Hoy, que de nuevo te encuentro,
quiero, sentir otra vez,
tus manos sobre mi cuerpo,
tu aliento y tus labios
quemando mi piel.

(3)
Porque no pude enamorarme más,
tu te adueñaste de mi voluntad.
En todo este tiempo he guardado deseos
y quiero saciarme en ti nada más.

(4)
Ven a mis brazos vuelveme a querer,
escucha lo que tengo para ti,
mi cuerpo te espera, te quiero de veras,
si tú no regresas me voy a morir.

(2), (3), (4), (3), (4)

Dusky — Thu, 04 Mar 2004 04:23:32 +0000

Translation:

Martin Estrada Contreras was a man who loved playing cards. People respected him because he played by the rules. He accepted his losses just as willingly as he rejoiced on his victories.

A young woman entered his heart. He turned her into his wife. To him, she was a rose. Not just any rose — the most beautiful rose.

A stranger came into town. The stranger came looking for Martin. They played a series of games, which resulted on Martin losing all his money. Nonetheless, they continued to play. The stranger said, “If you wish to see my cards, you must have something to bet.” Sure of himself, Martin responded, “I’ll bet my wife.”

The stranger exposed his cards, and Martin felt death was at his door. Alas, Martin held a weaker hand. Nothing more needed to be said. He left the scene in a hurry and returned within two hours — his wife was next to him. Noise died down…

“Debts resulting from gambling are debts to be honored. Here she is, for you to take. She’s what I adore most, and I give her to you. And because losing her would be like losing my life…”

Two shots were heard. First Martin killed the woman he loved, then himself..

El Tahur (Los Tigres del Norte)

Martín Estrada Contreras
Un tahur prófesional
Lo respetaba la gente porque jugaba legal
Era ‘pa todos derecho sabía perder o ganar

Pero una joven hermosa le llegó al corazón
El la convierte en su esposa ante el altar del señor
Es para él una rosa, de su jardin linda flor

Al pueblo llegó un fulano
que a Martín vino a buscar
pero Martín perdió todo
ya no tenía que apostar

Si quieres mirar mis cartas
tienes que pagar por ver
Martín contesta sereno
te apostaré mi mujer
Tenía una mano segura
Sabía que no iba a perder

Se destaparon cuatro aces
Se sintió Martín morir
Del juego así son las leyes
hay que aprender a sufrir
Tenía un pokar de reyes
no había ni que discutir

Martín salió como un rayo
y en dos horas regresó
Su esposa iba a su lado
todo en silencio quedó…

“pa mi las deudas del juego son siempre deudas de honor. Te entrego lo que más quiero, pero te la entrego muerta, aunque me destroze el alma, de sentimiento y dolor.”

Se oyeron dos fogonazos
de dos balas expansivas
Primero mató a su amada
después se quitó la vida

Dusky — Fri, 12 Dec 2003 12:02:04 +0000

I did fifth year of grade school at Woodland Hills Elementary, a predominately anglo school. My classmates and I were the few Latino students there. We were all recent immigrants. Some were from El Salvador, others from Guatemala, and the rest of us were Mexicans. But even among Mexicans, I was “El Mexicano” — the Mexican — nickname that I bore with pride. Well, okay, to a certain someone I was “Mexican Burrito.” That’s what a white girl called me when one of my classmates told her I liked her. Heh.

Our being different brought problems to the school. Along with big, freckled-face Fernando Toledo, Jehova’s Witness Roberto Garcia, Salvadorean Jorge Sifontes, and others, I battled the forces of evil — the white boys in the adjoining classrooms. We’d fight in the restrooms, and mad-dog one another outside of it. Our teachers only wanted to know one thing: “Why?!”

My class was known for more than starting fights, though. I recall that a dance festival was held in the playground. Other classes did their dances, but none of them drew as much attention as when we danced “El Jarabe Tapatio,” a Mexican folk dance. The audience was ours.

Another thing I remember of my fifth grade school-year is that our teacher, Mrs. Luvitsi, would have us come to the front of the room so that we could either tell jokes or sing. I did both. Yes, I was talented. Just as I do now, I’d tell jokes that nobody would get (in other words, unfunny). I’d end my jokes asking, “Did you guys get it?” Surprise, surprise, they’d say “no…” I’d head back to my seat, shrugging, and saying in a whiny voice, “Well neither did I, but you’re the ones who insisted on me telling it!” Heh, that last bit always made them laugh, as if I had wasted their time telling them a long story just to deliver that line.

As to the songs we sang, they were mostly by “Los Tigres del Norte.” I’m pretty sure I knew most of their songs. This was perhaps how I came to be known as “El Mexicano” — back then, there was not a band more Mexican than “Los Tigres del Norte,” and me knowing their music made me the most Mexican of the Mexicans in my class.

This brings me to a song by “Los Tigres del Norte.” Many undocumented immigrants can relate to it. It’s their situation in music form. Many undocumented immigrants may have more money now that they are living in the U. S., than they did in their own country, but they still want to go back. They can’t return to it, however, because that would mean they’d have to risk their lives to re-enter the USA. Returning to USA is unavoidable, as they can bring thousands of dollars with them back to Mexico, but money vanishes. They have no choice but to remain living here, in what they consider their golden cage.

Translation:

Here I am, still living in the United States. It’s been ten years since the day I became a wetback. My situation is the same. I remain an undocumented immigrant. I have my wife and children, who came with me when they were little. They have forgotten about Mexico; I haven’t, but I can’t return to it.

What good is money if I’m being held in this (great) country against my will? Remembering this I cry, realizing that although the cage may be made out of gold, it’s still a cage, nonetheless.

(Father asks in Spanish:) “Hey, son, listen, how would you like to return to Mexico?”
(Son responds in English:) “What you talking about, dad? I don’t want to go back to Mexico. No way, dad.”

My children have assimilated. They no longer talk to me. They have learned another language and forgotten that which was their own. They think like Americans. They deny being Mexicans, although we bear the same brown skin. As for me, I remain the wetback who rarely roams the streets, the wetback who still fears being found and deported.

Really, what good is money if I’m being held against my will? Remembering this I cry, realizing that although the cage may be made out of gold, it’s still a cage, nonetheless.

La Jaula de Oro (Los Tigres del Norte)
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Aqui estoy establecido
en los Estados Unidos
diez años pasaron ya

en que crucé de mojado
papeles no he arreglado
sigo siendo un ilegal

Tengo mi esposa y mis hijos
que me los trajé muy chicos
y se han olvidado ya

de mi México querido
del que yo nunca me olvido
y no puedo regresar

De que me sirve el dinero
si estoy como prisionero
dentro de esta gran nación

Cuando me acuerdo hasta lloro
que aunque la jaula sea de oro
no deja de ser prisión

– Escuchame hijo. Te gustaria que regresaramos a vivir a México?
– What you talking about, Dad? I don’t want to go back to Mexico. No way, dad.

Mis hijos no hablan conmigo
otro idioma han aprendido
y olvidado el español

Piensan como americanos
niegan que son mexicanos
aunque tengan mi color

De mi trabajo a mi casa
yo no sé lo que me pasa
que aunque soy hombre de hogar

Casi no salgo a la calle
pues tengo miedo que me hallen
y me puedan deportar

De que me sirve el dinero
si estoy como prisionero
dentro de esta gran nación

Cuando me acuerdo hasta lloro
que aunque la jaula sea de oro
no deja de ser prisión

Dusky — Wed, 25 Jun 2003 00:45:33 +0000

I sang in the shower a song I haven’t heard in years. It told my story. I felt it.

Translation:

As a result of the love I had for a woman, I played with fire not realizing it was me who burned. I drank from the fountain of pleasure, until I realized it wasn’t me she loved.

It all seems like a dream, but I know one day I’ll have forgotten. I’m sad at the moment, but soon I’ll sing.

For the love I had for a woman, I cried and came to the verge of going crazy. Meanwhile, she was surrounded by laughter. I shattered a glass and allowed my veins to bleed. I did not know what I was doing.

But once I heal, it’s my promise that I will never again look back into the past.

Por El Amor de Una Mujer (Los Tigres del Norte)

Por el amor de una mujer
Jugué con fuego sin saber
Que era yo quien me quemaba
Bebí en las fuentes del placer
Hasta llegar a comprender
Que no era a mí a quien amaba

Por el amor de una mujer
He dado todo cuanto fuí
Lo más hermoso de mi vida
Mas ese tiempo que perdí
Ha de servirme alguna vez
Cuando se cure bien mi herida

Todo me parece como un sueño todavía
Pero se que al fín podré olvidar un día
Hoy me siento triste pero pronto cantaré
Y prometo no acordarme nunca del ayer

Por el amor de una mujer
Llegué a llorar y enloquecer
Mientras que ella se reía
Rompí en pedazos un cristal
Dejé mis venas desangrar
Pues no sabía lo que hacía

Por el amor de una mujer
He dado todo cuanto fuí
Lo mas hermoso de mi vida
Más ese tiempo que perdí
Ha de servirme alguna vez
Cuando se cure bíen mi herida