Los Vendidos11Los Vendidos the sellouts.· List of Char.docx

Los Vendidos1
1Los Vendidos the sellouts.
· List of Characters
· Honest Sancho
· Secretary
· Farm Worker
· Johnny
· Revolucionario
· Mexican -American
SCENE: Honest Sancho’s Used Mexican Lot and Mexican Curio
Shop. Three models are on display in Honest sancho ’s shop: to
the right, there is a revolucionario, complete with sombrero,
carrilleras,2and carabina 30-30. At center, on the floor, there is
the farm worker under a broad straw sombrero. At stage left is
the pachuco 3 filero4 in hand.
2carrilleras cartridge belts.
3Pachuco an urban tough guy.
4filero blade.
[Honest sancho is moving among his models, dusting them off
and preparing for another day of business]
sancho: Bueno, bueno, mis monos, vamos a ver a quien
vendemos ahora, ¿no?5 [To audience.] ¡Quihubo! I’m Honest
Sancho and this is my shop. Antes fui contratista pero ahora
logré tener mi negocito.6 All I need now is a customer. [A bell
rings offstage.] Ay, a customer!
5Bueno . . . ¿no? Well, well darlings, let's see who we can sell
now, O.K.?
6Antes . . . negocito I used to be a contractor, but now I've
succeeded in having my little business.
secretary: [Entering] Good morning, I’m Miss Jiménez from—

sancho: ¡Ah, una chicana! Welcome, welcome Señorita Jiménez.
secretary: [Anglopronunciation] JIM-enez.
sancho: ¿Qué?
secretary: My name is Miss JIM-enez. Don’t you speak English?
What’s wrong with you?
sancho: Oh, nothing, Señorita JIM-enez. I’m here to help you.
secretary: That’s better. As I was starting to say, I’m a secretary
from Governor Reagan’s office, and we’re looking for a
Mexican type for the administration.
sancho: Well, you come to the right place, lady. This is Honest
Sancho’s Used Mexican lot, and we got all types here. Any
particular type you want?
secretary: Yes, we were looking for somebody suave—
sancho: Suave.
secretary: Debonair.
sancho: De buen aire.
secretary: Dark.
sancho: Prieto.
secretary: But of course not too dark.
sancho: No muy prieto.
secretary: Perhaps, beige.
sancho: Beige, just the tone. Así como cafecito con leche,7 ¿no?
7Así . . . leche like coffee with milk.
secretary: One more thing. He must be hard-working.
sancho: That could only be one model. Step right over here to
the center of the shop, lady. [They cross to the farm worker .]
This is our standard farm worker model. As you can see, in the
words of our beloved Senator George Murphy, he is “built close
to the ground.” Also take special notice of his four-ply
Goodyear huaraches, made from the rain tire. This wide-
brimmed sombrero is an extra added feature—keeps off the sun,
rain, and dust.
secretary: Yes, it does look durable.
sancho: And our farm worker model is friendly. Muy
amable.8 Watch. [Snaps his fingers.]
8Muy amable very friendly.

farm worker [Lifts up head]: Buenos días, señorita. [His head
drops.]
secretary: My, he’s friendly.
sancho: Didn’t I tell you? Loves his patrones! But his most
attractive feature is that he’s hard working. Let me show you.
[Snapsfingers, farm worker stands.]
farm worker: ¡El jale!9 [He begins to work.]
9¡El jale! the job!
sancho: As you can see, he is cutting grapes.
secretary: Oh, I wouldn’t know.
sancho: He also picks cotton. [Snap. farm worker begins to pick
cotton.]
secretary: Versatile isn’t he?
sancho: He also picks melons. [Snap. farm worker picks
melons.] That’s his slow speed for late in the season. Here’s his
fast speed. [Snap. farm worker picks faster.]
secretary: ¡Chihuahua! . . . I mean, goodness, he sure is a hard
worker.
sancho [Pulls the farm worker to his feet]: And that isn’t the
half of it. Do you see these little holes on his arms that appear
to be pores? During those hot sluggish days in the field, when
the vines or the branches get so entangled, it’s almost
impossible to move; these holes emit a certain grease that allow
our model to slip and slide right through the crop with no
trouble at all.
secretary: Wonderful. But is he economical?
sancho: Economical? Señorita, you are looking at the
Volkswagen of Mexicans. Pennies a day is all it takes. One
plate of beans and tortillas will keep him going all day. That,
and chile. Plenty of chile. Chile jalapeños, chile verde, chile
colorado. But, of course, if you do give him chile [Snap. farm
worker turns left face. Snap. farm worker bends over.] then you
have to change his oil filter once a week.
secretary: What about storage?
sancho: No problem. You know these new farm labor camps our
Honorable Governor Reagan has built out by Parlier or Raisin

City? They were designed with our model in mind. Five, six,
seven, even ten in one of those shacks will give you no trouble
at all. You can also put him in old barns, old cars, river banks.
You can even leave him out in the field overnight with no
worry!
secretary: Remarkable.
sancho: And here’s an added feature: Every year at the end of
the season, this model goes back to Mexico and doesn’t return,
automatically, until next Spring.
secretary: How about that. But tell me: does he speak English?
sancho: Another outstanding feature is that last year this model
was programmed to go out on STRIKE! [Snap.]
farm worker: ¡ HUELGA! ¡HUELGA! Hermanos, sálganse de
esos files.10 [Snap. He stops.]
10¡HUELGA! . . . files Strike! Strike! Brothers, leave those
rows.
secretary: No! Oh no, we can’t strike in the State Capitol.
sancho: Well, he also scabs. [Snap.]
farm worker: Me vendo barato, ¿y qué?11 [Snap.]
11Me . . . qué? I come cheap. So what?
secretary: That’s much better, but you didn’t answer my
question. Does he speak English?
sancho: Bueno . . . no, pero12 he has other—
12Bueno . . . no, pero well, no, but.
secretary: No.
sancho: Other features.
secretary: NO! He just won’t do!
sancho: Okay, okay pues. We have other models.
secretary: I hope so. What we need is something a little more
sophisticated.
sancho: Sophisti—¿qué?
secretary: An urban model.
sancho: Ah, from the city! Step right back. Over here in this
corner of the shop is exactly what you’re looking for.
Introducing our new 1969 JOHNNY PACHUCO model! This is

our fast-back model. Streamlined. Built for speed, low-riding,
city life. Take a look at some of these features. Mag shoes, dual
exhausts, green chartreuse paint-job, dark-tint windshield, a
little poof on top. Let me just turn him on. [Snap. johnny walks
to stage center with a pachuco bounce.]
secretary: What was that?
sancho: That, señorita, was the Chicano shuffle.
secretary: Okay, what does he do?
sancho: Anything and everything necessary for city life. For
instance, survival: He knife fights. [Snap.johnny pulls out
switchblade and swings at secretary .]
[secretary screams.]
sancho: He dances. [Snap.]
johnny [Singing]: “Angel Baby, my Angel Baby . . .” [Snap.]
sancho: And here’s a feature no city model can be without. He
gets arrested, but not without resisting, of course. [Snap.]
johnny: ¡En la madre, la placa!13 I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!
[johnny turns and stands up against an imaginary wall, legs
spread out, arms behind his back.]
13¡En . . . la placa! Wow, the cops!
secretary: Oh no, we can’t have arrests! We must maintain law
and order.
sancho: But he’s bilingual!
secretary: Bilingual?
sancho: Simón que yes.14 He speaks English! Johnny, give us
some English. [Snap]
14Simón que yes Yea, sure.
johnny [Comes downstage]: Fuck-you!
secretary [Gasps]: Oh! I’ve never been so insulted in my whole
life!
sancho: Well, he learned it in your school.
secretary: I don’t care where he learned it.
sancho: But he’s economical!
secretary: Economical?
sancho: Nickels and dimes. You can keep Johnny running on
hamburgers, Taco Bell tacos, Lucky Lager beer, Thunderbird

wine, yesca—
secretary: Yesca?
sancho: Mota.
secretary: Mota?
sancho: Leños15 . . . Marijuana. [Snap; johnny inhales on an
imaginary joint]
15Leños joints (marijuana).
secretary: That’s against the law!
johnny [Big smile, holding his breath]: Yeah.
sancho: He also sniffs glue. [Snap. johnny inhales glue, big
smile.]
johnny: That’s too much man, ése.16
16ése fellow.
secretary: No, Mr. Sancho, I don’t think this—
sancho: Wait a minute, he has other qualities I know you’ll
love. For example, an inferiority complex. [Snap.]
johnny [To sancho ]: You think you’re better than me, huh ése?
[Swings switchblade.]
sancho: He can also be beaten and he bruises, cut him and he
bleeds; kick him and he—[He beats, bruises and
kicks pachuco. ] would you like to try it?
secretary: Oh, I couldn’t.
sancho: Be my guest. He’s a great scapegoat.
secretary: No, really.
sancho: Please.
secretary: Well, all right. Just once. [She kicks pachuco. ] Oh,
he’s so soft.
sancho: Wasn’t that good? Try again.
secretary [Kicks pachuco ]: Oh, he’s so wonderful! [She kicks
him again.]
sancho: Okay, that’s enough, lady. You ruin the merchandise.
Yes, our Johnny Pachuco model can give you many hours of
pleasure. Why, the L.A.P.D. just bought twenty of these to train
their rookie cops on. And talk about maintenance. Señorita, you
are looking at an entirely self-supporting machine. You’re never
going to find our Johnny Pachuco model on the relief rolls. No,

sir, this model knows how to liberate.
secretary: Liberate?
sancho: He steals. [Snap. johnny rushes the secretary and steals
her purse]
johnny: ¡Dame esa bolsa, vieja!17 [He grabs the purse and runs.
Snap by sancho. He stops.]
17¡Dame . . . vieja! Give me that bag, old lady!
[secretary runs after johnny and grabs purse away from him,
kicking him as she goes.]
secretary: No, no, no! We can’t have any more thieves in the
State Administration. Put him back.
sancho: Okay, we still got other models. Come on, Johnny,
we’ll sell you to some old lady. [sanchotakes johnny back to his
place.]
secretary: Mr. Sancho, I don’t think you quite understand what
we need. What we need is something that will attract the women
voters. Something more traditional, more romantic.
sancho: Ah, a lover. [He smiles meaningfully.] Step right over
here, señorita. Introducing our standard Revolucionario and/or
Early California Bandit type. As you can see he is well-built,
sturdy, durable. This is the International Harvester of Mexicans.
secretary: What does he do?
sancho: You name it, he does it. He rides horses, stays in the
mountains, crosses deserts, plains, rivers, leads revolutions,
follows revolutions, kills, can be killed, serves as a martyr,
hero, movie star—did I say movie star? Did you ever see Viva
Zapata? Viva Villa? Villa Rides? Pancho Villa Returns? Pancho
Villa Goes Back? Pancho Villa Meets Abbott and Costello—
secretary: I’ve never seen any of those.
sancho: Well, he was in all of them. Listen to this. [Snap.]
revolucionario [Scream]: ¡VIVA VILLAAAAA!
secretary: That’s awfully loud.
sancho: He has a volume control. [He adjusts volume. Snap.]
revolucionario [Mousey voice]: ¡Viva Villa!
secretary: That’s better.
sancho: And even if you didn’t see him in the movies, perhaps

you saw him on TV He makes commercials. [Snap.]
revolucionario: Is there a Frito Bandito in your house?
secretary: Oh yes, I’ve seen that one!
sancho: Another feature about this one is that he is economical.
He runs on raw horsemeat and tequila.
secretary: Isn’t that rather savage?
sancho: Al contrario,18 it makes him a lover. [Snap.]
18Al contrario On the contrary.
revolucionario [To secretary ]: ¡Ay, mamasota, cochota, ven
pa’ca!19 [He grabs secretary and folds her back—Latin-Lover
style.]
19¡Ay . . . pa'ca! Get over here!
sancho [Snap. revolucionario goes back upright.]: Now wasn’t
that nice?
secretary: Well, it was rather nice.
sancho: And finally, there is one outstanding feature about this
model I KNOW the ladies are going to love: He’s a GENUINE
antique! He was made in Mexico in 1910!
secretary: Made in Mexico?
sancho: That’s right. Once in Tijuana, twice in Guadalajara,
three times in Cuernavaca.
secretary: Mr. Sancho, I thought he was an American product.
sancho: No, but—
secretary: No, I’m sorry. We can’t buy anything but American-
made products. He just won’t do.
sancho: But he’s an antique!
secretary: I don’t care. You still don’t understand what we need.
It’s true we need Mexican models such as these, but it’s more
important that he be American.
sancho: American?
secretary: That’s right, and judging from what you’ve shown
me, I don’t think you have what we want. Well, my lunch hour’s
almost over: I better—
sancho: Wait a minute! Mexican but American?
secretary: That’s correct.
sancho: Mexican but . . . [A sudden flash] AMERICAN! Yeah, I

think we’ve got exactly what you want. He just came in today!
Give me a minute. [He exits. Talks from backstage.] Here he is
in the shop. Let me just get some papers off. There. Introducing
our new 1970 Mexican-American! Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-RA-RAAA!
[sancho brings out the mexican-american model, a clean-shaven
middle-class type in a business suit, with glasses.]
secretary [Impressed]: Where have you been hiding this one?
sancho: He just came in this morning. Ain’t he a beauty? Feast
your eyes on him! Sturdy US STEEL frame, streamlined,
modern. As a matter of fact, he is built exactly like our Anglo
models except that he comes in a variety of darker shades:
naugahyde, leather, or leatherette.
secretary: Naugahyde.
sancho: Well, we’ll just write that down. Yes, señorita, this
model represents the apex of American engineering! He is
bilingual, college educated, ambitious! Say the word
“acculturate” and he accelerates. He is intelligent, well-
mannered, clean—did I say clean? [Snap. mexican-
american raises his arm.] Smell.
secretary [Smells]: Old Sobaco, my favorite.
sancho [Snap. mexican-american turns toward sancho ]: Eric!
[To secretary .] We call him Eric García. [Toeric .] I want you
to meet Miss JIM-enez, Eric.
mexican-american: Miss JIM-enez, I am delighted to make your
acquaintance. [He kisses her hand.]
secretary: Oh, my, how charming!
sancho: Did you feel the suction? He has seven especially
engineered suction cups right behind his lips. He’s a charmer all
right!
secretary: How about boards? Does he function on boards?
sancho: You name them, he is on them. Parole boards, draft
boards, school boards, taco quality control boards, surf boards,
two-by-fours.
secretary: Does he function in politics?
sancho: Señorita, you are looking at a political MACHINE.

Have you ever heard of the OEO, EOC, COD, WAR ON
POVERTY? That’s our model! Not only that, he makes political
speeches.
secretary: May I hear one?
sancho: With pleasure. [Snap.] Eric, give us a speech.
mexican-american: Mr. Congressman, Mr. Chairman, members
of the board, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen.
[sancho and secretary applaud.] Please, please. I come before
you as a Mexican-American to tell you about the problems of
the Mexican. The problems of the Mexican stem from one thing
and one thing alone: He’s stupid. He’s uneducated. He needs to
stay in school. He needs to be ambitious, forward-looking,
harder-working. He needs to think American, American,
American, AMERICAN, AMERICAN, AMERICAN. GOD
BLESS AMERICA! GOD BLESS AMERICA! GOD BLESS
AMERICA!! [He goes out of control.]
[sancho snaps frantically and the mexican-american finally
slumps forward, bending at the waist.]
secretary: Oh my, he’s patriotic too!
sancho: Sí, señorita, he loves his country. Let me just make a
little adjustment here.
[Stands mexican-american up.]
secretary: What about upkeep? Is he economical?
sancho: Well, no, I won’t lie to you. The Mexican-American
costs a little bit more, but you get what you pay for. He’s worth
every extra cent. You can keep him running on dry Martinis,
Langendorf bread.
secretary: Apple pie?
sancho: Only Mom’s. Of course, he’s also programmed to eat
Mexican food on ceremonial functions, but I must warn you: an
overdose of beans will plug up his exhaust.
secretary: Fine! There’s just one more question: HOW MUCH
DO YOU WANT FOR HIM?
sancho: Well, I tell you what I’m gonna do. Today and today
only, because you’ve been so sweet, I’m gonna let you steal this
model from me! I’m gonna let you drive him off the lot for the

simple price of—let’s see taxes and license included—$15,000.
secretary: Fifteen thousand DOLLARS? For a MEXICAN!
sancho: Mexican? What are you talking, lady? This is a
Mexican-AMERICAN! We had to melt down two pachucos, a
farm worker and three gabachos20 to make this model! You
want quality, but you gotta pay for it! This is no cheap
runabout. He’s got class!
20gabachos whites.
secretary: Okay, I’ll take him.
sancho: You will?
secretary: Here’s your money.
sancho: You mind if I count it?
secretary: Go right ahead.
sancho: Well, you’ll get your pink slip in the mail. Oh, do you
want me to wrap him up for you? We have a box in the back.
secretary: No, thank you. The Governor is having a luncheon
this afternoon, and we need a brown face in the crowd. How do
I drive him?
sancho: Just snap your fingers. He’ll do anything you want.
[secretary snaps. mexican-american steps forward.]
mexican-american: RAZA QUERIDA, ¡VAMOS
LEVANTANDO ARMAS PARA LIBERARNOS DE ESTOS
DESGRACIADOS GABACHOS QUE NOS EXPLOTAN!
VAMOS.21
21RAZA . . . VAMOS Beloved Raza [persons of Mexican
descent], let's take up arms to liberate ourselves from those
damned whites who exploit us. Let's get going.
secretary: What did he say?
sancho: Something about lifting arms, killing white people, etc.
secretary: But he’s not supposed to say that!
sancho: Look, lady, don’t blame me for bugs from the factory.
He’s your Mexican- American; you bought him, now drive him
off the lot!
secretary: But he’s broken!
sancho: Try snapping another finger.
[secretary snaps. mexican-american comes to life again.]

mexican-american: ¡ESTA GRAN HUMANIDAD HA DICHO
BASTA! Y SE HA PUESTO EN MARCHA! ¡BASTA! ¡BASTA!
¡VIVA LA RAZA! ¡VIVA LA CAUSA! ¡VIVA LA HUELGA!
¡VIVAN LOS BROWN BERETS! ¡VIVAN LOS ESTUDI-
ANTES!22 ¡CHICANO POWER!
22¡ESTA . . . ESTUDIANTES! This great mass of humanity has
said enough! And it has begun to march. Enough! Enough! Long
live La Raza! Long live the Cause! Long live the strike! Long
live the Brown Berets! Long live the students!
[The mexican-american turns toward the secretary, who gasps
and backs up. He keeps turning toward the pachuco, farm
worker, and revolucionario , snapping his fingers and turning
each of them on, one by one.]
pachuco [Snap. To secretary ]: I’m going to get you, baby!
¡Viva La Raza!
farm worker [Snap. To secretary ]: ¡Viva la huelga! ¡Viva la
Huelga! ¡VIVA LA HUELGA!
revolucionario [Snap. To secretary ]: ¡Viva la revolución!
¡VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!
[The three models join together and advance toward
the secretary, who backs up and runs out of the shop
screaming. sancho is at the other end of the shop holding his
money in his hand. All freeze. After a few seconds of silence,
the pachuco moves and stretches, shaking his arms and
loosening up. The farm worker and revolucionario do the
same. sancho stays where he is, frozen to his spot.]
johnny: Man, that was a long one, ése.23 [Others agree with
him.]
23ése fellow.
farm worker: How did we do?
johnny: Perty good, look at all that lana,24 man! [He goes over
to sancho and removes the money from his hand. sancho stays
where he is.] revolucionario: En la madre, look at all the
money.
24lana money.
johnny: We keep this up, we’re going to be rich.

farm worker: They think we’re machines.
revolucionario: Burros.
johnny: Puppets.
mexican-american: The only thing I don’t like is—how come I
always got to play the godamn Mexican-American?
johnny: That’s what you get for finishing high school.
farm worker: How about our wages, ése?
johnny: Here it comes right now. $3,000 for you, $3,000 for
you, $3,000 for you, and $3,000 for me. The rest we put back
into the business.
mexican-american: Too much, man. Heh, where you
vatos25 going tonight?
25vatos guys.
farm worker: I’m going over to Concha’s. There’s a party.
johnny: Wait a minute, vatos. What about our salesman? I think
he needs an oil job.
revolucionario: Leave him to me.
[The pachuco, farm worker, and mexican-american exit, talking
loudly about their plans for the night. Therevolucionario goes
over to sancho, removes his derby hat and cigar, lifts him up
and throws him over his shoulder. sancho hangs loose, lifeless.]
revolucionario [To audience]: He’s the best model we got!
¡Ajua!26
26¡Ajua! Wow!
[Exit.]
the end
[1967]
Reference format
When you quote or wish to cite a source, do so by placing
parentheses before the period at the end of the sentence. Inside
the parentheses put the author’s last name, date of publication,
and page number.
List all cited sources at the end of your paper in alphabetical

order by author’s last name.
For example, here is one citation:
Southern secession was precipitated by particular events—
notably by John Brown’s rebellion and Lincoln’s election—
which heightened Southern paranoia regarding the potential
instability of their property rights in slaves (McPherson 1988,
pp. 202-275).
And here is the reference listed at the end of the paper:
James McPherson. “The Revolution of 1860.” From his Battle
Cry of Freedom. NY: Oxford University Press, 1988, pp. 202-
275.
Senior Picture Day (page 51-53)
Sometimes I put two different earrings in the same ear. And
that’s on a day I’m feeling preppy, not really new wave or
anything. One time, during a track meet over at Camarillo High,
I discovered way too late that I’d forgot to put on deodorant and
that was the worst ’cause everyone knows how snooty those
girls at Camarillo can be. Hmmm. Actually the worst thing I’ve
ever forgotten to do was take my pill. That happened three
mornings in a row and you can bet I was praying for weeks after
that.
So many things to remember when you’re seventeen years old
and your days start at six A.M. and sometimes don’t end until
five in the afternoon. But today of all days there’s one thing I
have to remember to do and that’s to squeeze my nose. I’ve
been doing it since the seventh grade. Every morning with my
thumb and forefinger I squeeze the sides of it, firmly pressing
my nostrils as close as they possibly can get near the base.
Sometimes while I’m waiting for the tortilla to heat up, or just
when I’m brushing my teeth, I squeeze. Nobody ever notices.
Nobody ever asks. With all the other shit seniors in high school
go through, squeezing my nose is nothing. It’s just like some

regular early-morning routine, like yawning or wiping the egg
from my eyes. Okay, so you might think it’s just a total waste of
time, but to tell you the truth, I do see the difference. Just last
week I lined up all my class pictures and could definitely see
the progress. My nose has actually become smaller, narrower. It
looks less Indian. I look less Indian and you can bet that’s the
main goal here. Today, when I take my graduation pictures, my
nose will look just like Terri’s and then I’ll have the best
picture in the year-book. I think about this as Mrs. Milne’s
Duster comes honking in the driveway to take me to school.
Terri was my best friend in seventh grade. She came from
Washington to Rio Del Valle junior high halfway through
October. She was the first girl I knew who had contact lenses
and four pairs of Chemin de Fers. Can you believe that? She
told everyone that her daddy was gonna build ’em a swimming
pool for the summer. She told me that I could go over to swim
anytime I wanted. But until then, she told me, I could go over
and we could play on her dad’s CB.1
1 CB Citizens Band (a radio frequency used by the general
public to talk to one another over a short distance).
“You dad’s really got a CB?” I asked her.
5“Oh, yeah,” she answered, jiggling her locker door. “You can
come over and we can make up handles for ourselves and meet
lots of guys. Cute ones.”
“Whaddaya mean, handles?” I asked.
“Like names, little nicknames. I never use my real name. I’m
‘G.G.’ when I get on. That stands for Golden Girl. Oh, and you
gotta make sure you end every sentence with ‘over.’ You’re like
a total nerd if you don’t finish with ‘over.’ I never talk to
anyone who doesn’t say ‘over.’ They’re the worst.”
Nobody’s really into citizen band radios anymore. I now see
’em all lined up in pawnshops over on Oxnard Boulevard. But
back in the seventh grade, everyone was getting them. They
were way better than using a phone ’cause, first of all, there
was no phone bill to bust you for talking to boys who lived past
the Grade and second, you didn’t have your stupid sister yelling

at you for tying up the phone line. Most people had CBs in their
cars, but Terri’s dad had his in the den.
When I showed up at Terri’s to check out the CB, her mama was
in the front yard planting some purple flowers.
“Go on in already.” She waved me in. “She’s in her father’s
den.”
I found Terri just like her mama said. She was already on the
CB, looking flustered and sorta excited.
“Hey,” I called out to her, and plopped my tote bag on her dad’s
desk.
She didn’t answer but rather motioned to me with her hands to
hurry up. Her mouth formed an exaggerated, “Oh, my God!” She
held out a glass bowl of Pringles and pointed to a glass of Dr
Pepper on the desk.
It turned out Terri had found a boy on the CB. An
older interested one. He was fifteen, a skateboarder, and his
handle was Lightning Bolt.
15“Lightning Bolt,” he bragged to Terri. “Like, you know,
powerful and fast. That’s the way I skate. So,” he continued,
“where you guys live? Over.”
“We live near Malibu.” Terri answered. “Between Malibu and
Santa Barbara. Over.”
“Oh, excuse me, fan-ceee. Over.”
“That’s right.” Terri giggled. “Over.”
We actually lived in Oxnard. Really, in El Rio, a flat patch of
houses, churches, and schools surrounded by lots of strawberry
fields and some new snooty stucco homes surrounded by
chainlink. But man, did Terri have this way of making things
sound better. I mean, it was the truth, geographically, and
besides it sounded way more glamorous.
20I took some Pringles from the bowl and thought we were
gonna have this wonderful afternoon of talking and flirting with
Lightning Bolt until Terri’s dad happened to come home early
and found us gabbing in his den.
“What the …!” he yelled as soon as he walked in and saw us
hunched over his CB. “What do you think this is? Party Central?

Get off that thing!” He grabbed the receiver from Terri’s hand.
“This isn’t a toy! It’s a tool. A tool for communication, you
don’t use it just to meet boys!”
“Damn, Dad,” Terri complained as she slid off her father’s
desk. “Don’t have a cow.” She took my hand and led me to her
room. “Come on, let’s pick you out a handle.”
When we were in her room, I told her I had decided on Cali Girl
as my handle.
“You mean, like California?” she asked.
25“Yeah, sorta.”
“But you’re Mexican.”
“So?”
“So, you look like you’re more from Mexico than California.”
“What do you mean?”
30“I mean, California is like, blond girls, you know.”
“Yeah, but I am Californian. I mean, real Californian. Even my
great-grandma was born here.”
“It’s just that you don’t look like you’re from California.”
“And you’re not exactly golden,” I snapped.
We decided to talk to Lightning Bolt the next day, Friday, right
after school. Terri’s dad always came home real late on Fridays,
sometimes even early the next Saturday morning. It would be
perfect. When I got to her house the garage door was wide open
and I went in through the side door. I almost bumped into
Terri’s mama. She was spraying the house with Pine Scent and
offered me some Hi-C.
“Help yourself to a Pudding Pop, too,” she said before heading
into the living room through a mist of aerosol. “They’re in the
freezer.”
Man, Terri’s mama made their whole life like an afternoon
commercial. Hi-C, Pringles in a bowl, the whole house smelling
like a pine forest. Was Terri lucky or what? I grabbed a Pudding
Pop out of the freezer and was about to join her when I picked
up on her laugh. She was already talking to Lightning Bolt.
Dang, she didn’t waste time!
“Well, maybe we don’t ever want to meet you,” I heard Terri

flirt with Lightning Bolt. “How do you know we don’t already
have boyfriends? Over.”
“Well, you both sound like foxes. So, uh, what do you look
like? Over.”
“I’m about five-four and have green eyes and ginger-colored
hair. Over.”
40Green? Ginger? I always took Terri for having brown eyes
and brown hair.
“What about your friend? Over.”
“What about her? Over.”
Oh, this was about me! I had to hear this. Terri knew how to
pump up things good.
“I mean, what does she look like?” Lightning Bolt asked. “She
sounds cute. Over.”
45“Well …” I overheard Terri hesitate. “Well, she’s real skinny
and, uh …”
“I like skinny girls!”
“You didn’t let me finish!” Terri interrupted. “And you didn’t
say ‘over.’ Over.”
“Sorry,” Lightning Bolt said. “Go ahead and finish. Over.”
I tore the wrapper off the Pudding Pop and continued to listen.
“Well,” Terri continued. “She’s also sorta flat-chested, I guess.
Over.”
What? How could Terri say that?
“Flat-chested? Oh yeah? Over.” Lightning Bolt answered.
“Yeah. Over.”
Terri paused uncomfortably. It was as if she knew what she was
saying was wrong and bad and she should’ve stopped but
couldn’t. She was saying things about a friend, things a real
friend shouldn’t be saying about another friend, but now there
was a boy involved and he was interested in that other friend, in
me, and her side was losing momentum. She would have to
continue to stay ahead.
55“Yeah, and she also has this, this nose, a nose like … like

an Indian. Over.”
“An, Indian?” Lightning Bolt asked. “What do ya mean an
Indian? Over.”
“You know, Indian. Like powwow Indian.”
“Really?” Lightning Bolt laughed on the other end. “Like Woo-
Woo-Woo Indian?” He clapped his palm over his mouth and
wailed. A sound I knew all too well.
“Yeah, just like that!” Terri laughed. “In fact, I think she’s
gonna pick ‘Li’l Squaw’ as her handle!”
60I shut the refrigerator door quietly. I touched the ridge of my
nose. I felt the bump my mother had promised me would be less
noticeable once my face “filled out.” The base of my nose was
far from feminine and was broad, like, well, like Uncle Rudy’s
nose, Grandpa Rudy’s nose, and yeah, a little bit of Uncle
Vincente’s nose, too. Men in my family who looked like Indians
and here their Indian noses were lumped together on me, on my
face. My nose made me look like I didn’t belong, made me look
less Californian than my blond counterparts. After hearing Terri
and Lightning Bolt laugh, more than anything I hated the men in
my family who had given me such a hideous nose.
I grabbed my tote bag and started to leave out through the
garage door when Terri’s mama called out from the living room.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked. “I know Terri would love
to have you for dinner. Her daddy’s working late again.”
I didn’t answer and I didn’t turn around. I just walked out and
went home.
And so that’s how the squeezing began. I eventually stopped
hanging out with Terri and never got a chance to use my handle
on her dad’s CB. I know it’s been almost four years since she
said all that stuff about me, about my nose, but man, it still
stings.
During freshman year I heard that Terri’s dad met some lady on
the CB and left her mama for this other woman. Can you believe
that? Who’d wanna leave a house that smelled like a pine forest
and always had Pudding Pops in the freezer?
As Mrs. Milne honks from the driveway impatiently, I grab my

books and run down the driveway, squeezing my nose just a
little bit more. I do it because today is Senior Picture Day and
because I do notice the difference. I might be too skinny. My
chest might be too flat. But God forbid I look too Indian.
[2000]
Stereotype video link :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2bAlUKtvMk
It’s Hard Enough Being Me (page 136)
When I entered college, I discovered I was Latina. Until then, I
had never questioned who I was or where I was from: My father
is a second-generation Mexican-American, born and raised in
Los Angeles, and my mother was born in Puerto Rico and raised
in Compton, Calif. My home is El Sereno, a predominantly
Mexican neighborhood in L.A. Every close friend I have back
home is Mexican. So I was always just Mexican. Though
sometimes I was just Puerto Rican–like when we would visit
Mamo (my grandma) or hang out with my Aunt Titi.
Upon arriving in New York as a first-year student, 3000 miles
from home, I not only experienced extreme culture shock, but
for the first time I had to define myself according to the broad
term “Latina.” Although culture shock and identity crisis are
common for the newly minted collegian who goes away to
school, my experience as a newly minted Latina was, and still
is, even more complicating. In El Sereno, I felt like I was part
of a majority, whereas at the College I am a minority.
I’ve discovered that many Latinos like myself have undergone
similar experiences. We face discrimination for being a
minority in this country while also facing criticism for being

“whitewashed” or “sellouts” in the countries of our heritage.
But as an ethnic group in college, we are forced to define
ourselves according to some vague, generalized Latino
experience. This requires us to know our history, our language,
our music, and our religion. I can’t even be a content “Puerto
Mexican” because I have to be a politically-and-socially-aware-
Latina-with-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-because-of-how-repressed-
I-am-in-this-country.
I am none of the above. I am the quintessential imperfect
Latina. I can’t dance salsa to save my life, I learned about
Montezuma and the Aztecs in sixth grade, and I haven’t prayed
to the Virgen de Guadalupe in years.
5Apparently I don’t even look Latina. I can’t count how many
times people have just assumed that I’m white or asked me if
I’m Asian. True, my friends back home call
me güera (“whitey”) because I have green eyes and pale skin,
but that was as bad as it got. I never thought I would wish my
skin were a darker shade or my hair a curlier texture, but since
I’ve been in college, I have—many times.
Another thing: My Spanish is terrible. Every time I call home, I
berate my mama for not teaching me Spanish when I was a
child. In fact, not knowing how to speak the language of my
home countries is the biggest problem that I have encountered,
as have many Latinos. In Mexico there is a term, pocha, which
is used by native Mexicans to ridicule Mexican-Americans. It
expresses a deep-rooted antagonism and dislike for those of us
who were raised on the other side of the border. Our failed
attempts to speak pure, Mexican Spanish are largely responsible
for the dislike. Other Latin American natives have this same
attitude. No matter how well a Latino speaks Spanish, it can
never be good enough.
Yet Latinos can’t even speak Spanish in the U.S. without
running the risk of being called “spic” or “wetback.” That is
precisely why my mother refused to teach me Spanish when I
was a child. The fact that she spoke Spanish was constantly
used against her: It prevented her from getting good jobs, and it

would have placed me in bilingual education—a construct of the
Los Angeles public school system that has proved to be more of
a hindrance to intellectual development than a help.
To be fully Latina in college, however, I must know Spanish. I
must satisfy the equation: Latina [equals] Spanish-speaking.
So I’m stuck in this black hole of an identity crisis, and college
isn’t making my life any easier, as I thought it would. In high
school, I was being prepared for an adulthood in which I would
be an individual, in which I wouldn’t have to wear a Catholic
school uniform anymore. But though I led an anonymous
adolescence, I knew who I was. I knew I was different from
white, black, or Asian people. I knew there was a language
other than English that I could call my own if I only knew how
to speak it better. I knew there were historical reasons why I
was in this country, distinct reasons that make my existence
here easier or more difficult than other people’s existence.
Ultimately, I was content.
10Now I feel pushed into a corner, always defining, defending,
and proving myself to classmates, professors, or employers.
Trying to understand who and why I am, while understanding
Plato or Homer, is a lot to ask of myself.
A month ago, I heard three Nuyorican (Puerto Ricans born and
raised in New York) writers discuss how New York City has
influenced their writing. One problem I have faced as a young
writer is finding a voice that is true to my community. I was
surprised and reassured to discover that as Latinos, these
writers had faced similar pressures and conflicts as myself;
some weren’t even taught Spanish in childhood. I will never
forget the advice that one of them gave me that evening: She
said that I need to be true to myself. “Because people will
always complain about what you are doing—you’re a ‘gringa’ or
a ‘spic’ no matter what,” she explained. “So you might as well
do things for yourself and not for them.”
I don’t know why it has taken 20 years to hear this advice, but
I’m going to give it a try.

Soy yo and no one else. Punto.1
1 Soy yo . . . Punto I’m me . . . Period. (Editors’ note.)
[1994]
To Live in the Borderlands Means You (page 1175)
To live in the Borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra españolani gabacha,° eres
mestiza, mulata,° half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps
5while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;
To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
10that mexicanas call you rajetas,°
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;
Cuando vives en la frontera°
people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
15you’re a burra, buey,° scapegoat,
forerunner of a new race,
half and half—both woman and man, neither—
a new gender;
To live in the Borderlands means to
20put chile in the borscht,
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra° at the border checkpoints;
Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
25resist the gold elixer beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
30where enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action
35dead, fighting back;
To live in the Borderlands means
the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
40pound you pinch you roll you out
smelling like white bread but dead;
To survive the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras°
be a crossroads.
2–3neither . . . mulata neither Hispanic Indian black Spanish
woman nor white you are mixed, a mixed breed.
3gabacha a Chicano term for a white woman.
10rajetas literally, “split,” that is, having betrayed your word
(author’s note).
13Cuando . . . frontera when you live in the borderlands.
15burra, buey donkey, oxen (author’s note).
23la migra immigration officials.
42sin fronteras without borders.
[1987]
1. The short story "Senior Picture Day" (page 51) begins with
the sentence: "Sometimes I put two different earrings in the
same ear." In the context of the story, what might "two

different earrings" symbolize? On page 53, Terri and the
narrator discuss the difference between being Mexican and
Californian. In what ways is the narrator both?
2. What standard of beauty is the narrator of "Senior Picture
Day" trying to achieve by pinching her nose? Can you think of
any attempts on the part of women in our society to conform to
a standard of beauty that is not natural for them? In what ways
does Terri's life also fail to conform to standards of perfection?
What does that prove?
3. In "It's Hard Enough Being Me" the narrator states: "Trying
to understand who and why I am, while understanding Plato or
Homer, is a lot to ask of myself"(136), What does she mean?
How does her comment support Claude Steele's research (see
video on Stereotype Threat) on the connection between
stereotype threat and intellectual achievment?
(Video link :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2bAlUKtvMk)
4. Mention two ways in which Anzaludua in "To Live in the
Borderlands Means You" page 1175 expresses a dilemma
similar to both "Senior Picture Day" and "It's Hard Enough
Being Me." Mention and explain at least one example you know
of a person or group living on "the borderlands."
5. Mention one way in which the play Los Vendidos might
reinforce stereotypes, and one way in which it satirizes the
whole idea of stereotypes. Give one example of a stereotype
found in popular media today.

Los Vendidos11Los Vendidos the sellouts.· List of Char.docx

Los Vendidos11Los Vendidos the sellouts.· List of Char.docx

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