visions of mexcellence danced in his head

slowly the coffee shop is changing before our eyes. new paint, new carpet, but slowly, by piecemeal. every day something is different, moved, stricken, ripped off, glued on, etcetera, whatever.

slowly my hair grows over this break. all the time in the world to shave it back to its proper shortness. since there is always time, there is no need to make time. so it continues to inch ever further into chaos, curling, bending, defying gravity, no preconceived plan or overarching design. go ahead m.i.t. logarithm this.

the baristas begin to apologize for the mess, the unfinished work. not enough time, too much to do, too many people wanting their fix of triple shot half caff ristretto non-fat foam sugar free double cup extra hot two ice cubed with room caramel lattes. adjectives competing with paint strokes.

my chin mirrors my head. not going out of the house much, no need to shave every day, great sandpaper weapon for battles against my son, strike to bare belly. not quite a beard but more than a goatee. sprinkled random over my cheeks. the image of a dirty chai.

there is no need for your apologies, my little baristas, not for me. my people are accustom to this. cinder block by cinder block we have built our houses, rebar sticking, twisting, clumped and bending, walls unending pointing towards the heavens. 'next month grande-mama, we shall have enough pesos for another foot.' 'but what of little alfonso's cough he has had it for so long . . . take the money and the mule, travel to the village and buy some medicines. the house can wait for next month.'

for warmth this season, my wife has bought for me skin tight tank tops that i tuck into my jeans, fasten belt buckle. before the other layers are added, my image confronts me. visions of mexcellence danced in his head. the hair like so much rebar atop my head, the dirty pseudo beard, the tank top, the belt. i stick one hand in my pocket, tilt my head back and slightly to the right, gibbering in spanish sounding words with an accent. i am no longer rocky. i am eliseo che preparing his mule for the trip into the village to buy medicines for little alfonso.

today i'll take my espresso to go.

but where's my disney princess??

of course my people will never really excel in this culture. which means my kids are destined for less than greatness. they are half japanese which means that they can look to mulan as a source of inspiration. and a quarter white which provides several princess options. and an eighth native american for pocahontas to air spirit whisper encouragements. but what about the remaining eighth, that fiesta-longing, orange-crate selling mexicana, lounging on a homespun hammock. without that part of their heritage able to identify with a disney princess, they will forever be incomplete and furthermore unable to truly realize their potential.

destined for less than greatness.

as any good father, i will now attempt to remedy this problem by writing a script and using minority suffrage as a means to force disney into production.

i give you now the opening scenes of MINA: THE CHIKLET PRINCESS

[start with fog, lots of fog, interspersed with mist. creeping on their bellies, ever so slowly are two shadowed figures, made even shadowy-er by their sombreros and knapsacks. the silence of the night is shattered abruptly with a gun shot and dogs barking. the larger figure stops crawling. the other head turns around. close up shot.]

mina: papa, you stopped moving.

paco: i have been hit, my little mina. it is the border police. they have found us out.

mina: papa, you must come now then.

paco: no, this is the end for me. i cannot go. but you must my little mina.

mina: no [sniffling] i cannot leave y--

paco: you must go [sternly]. you must go now. and quickly. don't let them find you. here take this. [shot to the hands. paco handing mina a small crate] these are the chicklets mina. run to southern california. sell these chicklets and buy some more and then sell those. when you have enough money buy a lawnmower and start a landscaping company.

mina: papa, no, i cannot do it.

[voices are heard coming closer. things like they're over this way, keep coming, we'll find them.]

paco: my little mina. [this might be sung] you must be strong, you must brave, don't let these border police dig you a shallow grave [etc.]

[end of scene is mina running clutching the crate of chicklets]

this is just a start but the basic outline would be that mina becomes a successful entrepreneur and falls in love with the son of the border patrolman that shot her father. the son, who is interested in politics, eventually is elected president and passes legislation to open the southern border.