Hey, what do you know, Joe?
Mucho comments about my Feb. 1 column regarding the metamorphosis of Mexican names into seemingly wacky nicknames -- Nini from Alejandrina, for instance, or Chely from Araceli. I argued such changes occurred thanks to linguistic laws; some of you had other theories. Here are the best.
Here's what a Chicano Studies professor at East Los Angeles Community College once taught me: The way we shorten names and add the ch- sound is our way of defiantly infiltrating the invaders' Spanish language with Nahuatl, but only doing it in the personal realm, especially to show affection. Vicente becomes Chente, Alicia becomes Licha, and even though Memo is usually used for Guillermo, so is Chemo. Certainly Mexican Spanish differs from Castilian Spanish largely due to our indigenous heritage.
The following response is translated from the original Spanish as a token of goodwill to gabacho readers:
When I was in elementary school, they taught me this: Men named Jose would be called Pepe because of the original Jose: the husband of the Virgin Mary, whom the Catholic Church referred to in olden times as Padre Putativo -- or, in abbreviated form, P.P.
Gracias to all letter writers. Now on to this week's question...
Rice grows in rice paddies flooded with water. From what I understand, Mexico is mostly desert. So how on earth (literally) did Mexicans end up making arroz a staple of their diet?
'Nam Vet Who Has Seen Real Rice Paddies
Thank the Moors. They introduced arroz (the Spanish word for rice, which is derived from the Arabic ruz) to Spain, which introduced it to Mexico shortly after the Conquest. But stop thinking of Mexico as one giant backlot for The Magnificent Seven, 'Nam Vet: The country's geography and climate can support rice cultivation, mostly in the tropical states of Veracruz and Campeche and the Pacific coastal state Sinaloa. And forget rice -- let's talk tortillas. Did you read the Washington Post article last month that reported the price of tortillas in Mexico has almost quadrupled since last summer? And that Mexico's government is importing more than 800,000 tons of corn -- most of it from the United States -- to combat the price hikes? In a country that has suffered more black eyes than Rex Grossman, Mexico's tortilla troubles mark an all-time low. No matter how bad life got, Mexicans could always rely on salvation via cornmeal disks: my father still tells me stories of his mami saving the Arellanos from starvation by preparing tacos stuffed with corn kernels picked from cow shit. The rising cost of tortillas means either one of two things will happen, and neither is good for gabachos: a revolution that will force millions to el Norte, or a collapsing economy that will force millions to el Norte. Stave off the coming invasion, gabachos: Swear off Burrito Supremes and buy Mexicans tortillas by the tons.
Got a spicy question about Mexicans? Ask the Mexican at firstname.lastname@example.org. Those of you who do submit questions: they will be edited for clarity, cabrones. And include a hilarious pseudonym, por favor, or we'll make one up for you!
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