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She still gets called a wetback, but life for a Latina in “the most pro-Trump town in America” is alright

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One year after Trump was sworn in, ABC News hit up Miami — not the one in Florida, where an embarrassing amount of Latinos voted for Cheeseburglar’s alter ego, but the one in Texas, which is located in Roberts County, and is considered “the most pro-Trump town in America.”

Here’s a map:

ABC News: “There are more cows than people in Miami, pronounced locally as my-AM-uh.”

Miami is a tiny town with less than 600 people, and 95% of its residents voted for Trump.

I know what you’re thinking: it’s probably a white-ass town where everyone’s a hick. Well, according to the 2010 Census, 93.5 percent of the Roberts County is white, and “only 74 people identify as Hispanic or Latino.”

Make what you will of that information, but under those demographics I myself would identify as Aryan, but with skin cancer, just to avoid getting brown-bashed.

But this isn’t about me, it’s about Sonia Lopez, a 48-year-old Latina who spoke to ABC News, and is part of “one of three Mexican-American families” who live Miami:

“She immigrated to Texas from Mexico to live with her then-boyfriend, now husband, and has been living in Miami for more than a decade. She is still going through the citizenship process, so she wasn’t able to vote in 2016. But her eldest son and husband, who are both U.S. citizens, voted for Trump.”

Sonia, a Christian who prays for Trump “every morning, every night, every time that I remember,” seems to enjoy her life in Miami. She “cheers” loudly at the local football games, and has an “infectious” smile.

Sonia Lopez by Jason Kurtis/ABC News

The downside? Homegurl still gets called a wetback, in possibly more polite terms:

“She is often asked whether she is in the country legally. A man once asked whether she swam through ‘the river’ to get across the border, Lopez said.”

Lopez (López, more likely), has a comeback, telling her naysayers she didn’t have “the privilege” of being born in the US, and that she just wants a better life for herself and her family.

Would’ve Sonia voted for Trump, if she could? ABC News didn’t ask, but considering her entire immediate family did, it’s safe to assume she would have done the same.

Sonia does voice “one concern” about Grimace’s orange friend: “He separates families.” Trump ended special protections for immigrants from El Salvador and Haiti, plus has been fucking with DACA for quite a while, and she’s is having none of it:

“How do you expect to have a good country if you are divided in the foundations of the family?” Lopez told ABC News

Curiously, ABC News did find one person in Miami who voted for Trump, but did so while holding his nose.

Mitchell Locke, a cattle rancher who left the town to “go to college elsewhere” before moving back, saw through Trump’s bullshit — you know, the short of thing that happens when you get edumacated. Mitchell still voted for Donald because of his talk of getting rid of the death tax:

“Hillary Clinton proposed raising the estate tax, in some cases reaching 65 percent, and Trump promised to eliminate it altogether.”

Mitchell, and other conservatives in towns like Miami, apparently don’t give a shit about election interference by the Russians because those are just LIBERAL SMOKESCREENS, or something. What they do care about is not losing their patrimony:

“Locke posed a hypothetical: He imagined that if Clinton had won, his family ‘would have had to sell our land to the point where it wasn’t sustainable for two families,’ losing what they had worked for generations to accumulate. Those DACA people, should they be concerned about us, in that scenario?”

But as they say down south — south of the border, that is — lo barato sale caro [you get what you pay for], and once North Korea nukes us because of the Cheeseburglar’s rabid Twitter feed, we’re all gonna pay the death tax:

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Andrés Cantor, the most important sportscaster of a generation, liked my Tweet

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This past Sunday I logged on to Twitter to see what 45 was up to, and a friend had tweeted a video clip of Andrés Cantor, the Argentine sportscaster, belting an elongated “gooooooool” after Colombia had scored against Poland. I immediately replied with a simple innocuous response acknowledging I grew up listening to him, and his emotion never gets old.

Monday morning I woke up with a notification on my phone: “ANDRES CANTOR liked your reply.” Having worked around celebrities in a previous life, something like this wouldn’t make me  giddy, but this was different. I remember Andrés, along with Norberto Longo, announcing the Italia 1990 World Cup matches on Univision.

At the time, Univision was the only broadcaster airing all the matches, so non-Spanish speakers also got to experience Cantor’s signature phrase.  He made watching the matches so much more exciting. It wasn’t just his particular enunciation, but his narration, which adds nail-biting suspense, and has a way of scrambling one’s feelings.

He knows his audience very well; just this week, during Mexico vs. Sweden, in the last minute of the match, he began to narrate the results of the match, which allowed Mexico to advance to the next stage. His energy matched those of the stadium, as he announced in Spanish: “Korea takes out the champion (Germany), Korea advances Mexico!

OH. MY. GOD. How can you not get caught up in the drama?

It’s not the same, but there have been some improvements with soccer matches called in English. Fox’s F1 has the English language rights for the world cup. They had two Latinos with thick accents announce Mexico vs. Sweden, and they added their own flair with dramatic cadences in English. But it’s Andrés Cantor who has laid the foundation for dramatic futbol game calling.

I remember during the 1998 World Cup, when Mexico played Germany in the round of 16, the match was tied 1-1. Pavel Pardo tried to do some fancy footwork against a German player, and Cantor quickly commented to stop it and not to do this against Germany. I was thinking the SAME thing — what an idiot! That match had me on the edge of my seat, and Cantor read my mind. Mexico ended up losing the match and getting eliminated.

I heard Andrés for the first time during the 1990 World Cup, but it was in 1987 that he was hired at Univision to call the matches for the Liga MX. For most, it wasn’t until the 1994 World Cup that Cantor came into the limelight. He was recognized with several awards, including a regional Emmy and a National Career Achievement Emmy, for his work during the tournament. He even made an appearance on the David Letterman show.

From a 1994 interview in the LA TIMES:

He said his ‘Gooooooaalllll!’ call isn’t really a trademark, and not even unique. That’s the style of the announcers he listened to as a youngster in Argentina.

Andrés Cantor is very much the voice of soccer in the USA. He came up a time when there was only one network broadcasting the World Cup, and he called the matches like the announcers from his childhood. Ultimately he’s written the announcers playbook, and many who’ve come after him have been influenced by his style. Yes, Cantor’s booming voice has become an unmistakable trademark, but for me his observations are just as important. He’s always saying what I’m shouting at the screen, and, apparently, liking my tweets.


Tizoc Schwartz co-wrote a short film on the word ‘Chingar’ and has written other stuff you’ve never heard of.  He’s a carb enthusiast, and dislikes social media.


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Drunkards in the night: A hallway, two keys, and one lasting memory

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Last night I met a student from upstate New York. She was drunk and locked out from the apartment across from mine, which she leased through Airbnb. She was given two keys; one unlocked the front door of the building, the other one unlocked her anxiety, frustration, and some other door elsewhere, but not the front door of her leased apartment.

I asked her if she was okay and she said “yes” with plenty of confidence. I entered my apartment only to be distracted by her weeping a few minutes later. I don’t know my neighbor — I mean, I’ve seen him, we wave at each other. But I don’t know his name and definitely don’t have his number because, well, it’s New York. Not having to speak to your neighbors about pleasantries — or at all — is one of the perks of the city.

I walked back to the hallway and asked the woman, who was in her early twenties, at most, if she had my neighbor’s number. In her state, my question barely registered, so instead I asked for her name, and to unlock her cell phone, which she was fumbling with. “Nawn…cie. Here.” She handed me her phone where, coincidentally, a group text was blowing up on the screen.

I got in on that: “This isn’t Nancy, but a stranger who found your drunk friend in a hallway in the LES. Someone should come get her. She’s locked out.” I offered her a glass of water, but instead she bolted inside my apartment, ran directly towards the toilet, and threw up. She figured out the layout of my place almost instantly, which was very surprising considering her altered state.

After handing her a wad of napkins and the glass of water, Nancy crawled towards the living room. “Sorry. You’re so kind, and decent, I think. I’m from Ithaca. That’s not relevant to this situation, but yeah, I’m from Ithaca,” she explained while climbing on top of an office chair (I don’t have real living room furniture).

Her friend, Rachel, texted back: “OMG. I’ll be there in 20 minutes! Please take care of her.” I relayed the information to my sudden guest. “Well, Nancy. I guess Ithaca rolls pretty hard on Monday nights,” I quipped. “Naw. Just me,” she replied, before adding that she’s a “computer science student.” “Is that relevant to this situation?” I asked. “Yes. There’s nothing wrong with computer science, actually, but my dad forced me to study that. I’m not good at it, so I’m always getting wasted.”

Nancy’s struggle was all kinds of endearing, but it wasn’t my place to dish out advice because 1) she didn’t ask for it, and 2) she already knew shit was wrong, but simply decided to deal with it in an unhealthy, self-destructive way, just like most young people. It’s actually an important stepping stone in youth, the kind that simply needs to play out.

Rachel finally showed up, adding: “Thanks for taking care of her. We didn’t think she was this drunk when she left the bar.” Still woozy, Nancy looked in my general direction before she left, and mentioned a parting gift. “It’s next to your toothbrush. Thanks, dude.”

She left a memory — yeah, figuratively, but also literally. A 4 gigabyte Samsung DDR3 RAM laptop memory module.

Nancy’s funny. Nancy’s gonna be alright.

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