Periodically I'm reminded what a Pocha I am.
A Pocha, or Pocho, is someone who is a Mexican American living in the U.S. It has not been a term of endearment - it was a term of derision for those who were more connected with their American rather than their Mexican heritage. It is a phrase that was meant to have a bite to it. But it's become a phrase many of us have come to embrace because it describes our ability to appreciate the multiple aspects of our identity. We are comfortable with who we are.
I don't know what the phrase might be for folks from other groups with similar dynamics, but given who we are as humans, I'm sure they exist.
Yesterday was the Mexican Mother's Day.
That explains the folks on curbsides with flowers and gifts and the seeming redundancy of those things. Most Mexicanos don't buy those gifts on the second Sunday in May, the 10th is always El Día de las Madres.
My mother and my Aunt Martha celebrated the second Sunday of May. I don't know whether or not they knew of the Mexican tradition since they both grew up in the states and both were of the generation that lived through the "American" 20th century. They survived influenza, WWI, the Roaring Twenties, Great Depression, WWII, and most of the second half of the 20th century in their cultural lingua franca.
This fuschia reminds me of the many buds that grew in Aunt Martha's garden in East L.A. I remembered my aunt and mother on Sunday. I celebrated their lives yesterday, too. I can do this since I'm a Pocha - it's a gift of the territory.
Fuschia/Eaton Canyon -James Grimes