To me, you have to declare yourself a Chicano in order to be a Chicano. That makes a Chicano a Mexican-American with a defiant political attitude that centers on his or her right to self-definition. I’m a Chicano because I say I am.

But no Chicano will agree with me because one of the characteristics of being Chicano is you don’t agree with anybody, or anything. And certainly not another Chicano. We are the only tribe that has all chiefs and no Indians. But don’t ever insult a Chicano about being a Chicano because then all the other Chicanos will be on you with a vengeance. They will even fight each to be first in line to support you.

It’s not a category that appears on any U.S. Census survey. You can check White, African-American, Native-American, Asian, Pacific Islander and even Hispanic (which Chicanos hate). But there is no little box you can check that says Chicano. However, you can get a Ph.D. in Chicano Studies from Harvard and a multitude of other universities. You can cash retirement checks from those same prestigious universities after having taught Chicano Studies for 20 years, but there still no official recognition from the government.

No wonder Chicanos are confused.

So where did the word Chicano come from? Again, no two Chicanos can agree, so here is my definition what I think. In true Chicano fashion, this should be the official version.

The word “Chicano” was originally a derisive term from Mexicans to other Mexicans living in the United States. The concept was that those Mexicans living in the U.S. were no longer truly Mexicanos because they had given up their country by living in Houston, Los Angeles, “Guada La Habra,” or some other city. They were now something else and something less. Little satellite Mexicans living in a foreign country. They were something small. They were chicos. They were now Chicanos.

If you lived near the U.S.-Mexican border, the term was more or less an insult, but always some kind of insult. In the early days, the connotation of calling someone a Chicano was that they were poor, illiterate, destitute people living in tin shacks along the border. As soon as they could get a car loan and could move farther away from the border, the term became less of an insult over the years. But the resentment still lingered.

Some ask “Why can’t you people just all be Hispanic?” Same reason that all white people can’t just be called English. Just because you speak English or Spanish does not mean that you are one group. Hispanic is a census term that some dildo in a government office made up to include all Spanish-speaking brown people. It is especially annoying to Chicanos because it is a catch-all term that includes the Spanish conqueror. By definition, it favors European cultural invasion, not indigenous roots. It also includes all Latino groups, which brings us together because Hispanic annoys all Latino groups.

Why? Because they’re Latino and it’s part of their nature. (Aren’t you glad you asked?)

So what is a “Latino?” (It’s like opening Pandora’s box, huh?) “Latino” is refers to all Spanish-speaking people in the “New World” – South Americans, Central Americans, Mexicans, and Brazilians (even though they speak Portuguese). All those groups and their descendents living in the United States want to be called Latinos to recognize their Indian roots.

Mexicans call it having the “Nopal” in their face, that prickly pear cactus with big flat leaves that Mexicans eat, revere, and think they look like. When you go to Mexico and walk down the street in Mexico City, it’s like walking through a Nopal cactus garden. Nopal is everywhere.

For Latinos who don’t want to be so “Nopalese,” there’s always “Mexican-American.”  Or the dreaded “Hispanic” that should only be used when faced with complete befuddlement from the person asking what you are.

Because I am the only official version of what being Chicano is, I say Mexican-American is the politically correct middle ground between Hispanic and Chicano. Like in the song I wrote to be sung by a Chicano trying to be P.C. “Mexican-Americans; don’t like to just get into gang fights; they like flowers and music; and white girls named Debbie too.”

All those names made it confusing for me growing up. I lived in an all-black neighborhood, followed by an all-white one, and other kids in the always called me Mexican in both neighborhoods.

It never bothered me until one day I thought to myself “Hey, wait a minute, I’m not Mexican.” I’ve never even been to Mexico and I don’t speak Spanish. Sure, I eat Mexican food at family gatherings where all of the adults speak Spanish, but I eat Cheerios and pizza and hamburgers more. No, I’m definitely not a “Mexican.”  Maybe I was “Mexican-ish,” just like some people were “Jew-ish.”

These thoughts all ran through my mind when I chased down an alley by five young African-American kids. “Yo, Messican!” they called out in their patois. I stopped in my tracks and spun around. “I’m not a Mexican!” I shouted defiantly. They stopped too, then stared at me. The leader spoke, “Fool! What you talking ‘bout? You Mexican as a taco. Look at you.”

“No,”, I said. “To be a Mexican, you have to be from Mexico. You’re African-American. Are you from Africa?”

“N–. You crazy. I’m from South-Central, just like you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” I said. “Did anybody knock on your door and ask you did you want to be African-American?”

“Hell no! The social workers don’t even knock on our door, they too scared,” he said, cracking everyone up.

“Then why you letting people call you whatever they want? What do you want to be called?” I asked.

He looked at the others, thought about it for a few seconds and then said proudly, “I’m a Blood.”

“Ooo-kay,” I said making it up as I went along. “Then you’re a Blood-American.”

That seemed to go over well. They all nodded. “Yeah, we Blood-American.”

“Well, then go out and be the best Blood-Americans that you can be. Peace, brothers, I got to blow.” I walked away and so did they. Self-identification saved the day. Yet, I still was dissatisfied with what I wanted to call myself.

When I got home, there was a party going on. A bunch of relatives had come over for dinner and everybody was sitting around gabbing and drinking beer. My Uncle Rudy was in the middle of a story: “So, I took the car into the dealer and he said, ‘Yeah, the repairs gonna run you about $250.’ Two-fifty? Estas loco? Hell, just give me a pair of pliers and some tin foil. I’ll fix it – I’m a Chicano mechanic. Two-fifty, mis nalgas.”

And that was the defining epiphany. A Chicano was someone who could do anything. A Chicano was someone who wasn’t going to get ripped off. He was Uncle Rudy. He was industrious, inventive, and he wants another beer. So I got my Uncle Rudy another beer because, on that day, he showed me that I was a Chicano. Hispanic my ass, I’ve been a Chicano ever since.

~ Cheech Marin

Originally published in the Huffington Post. This is the first article in a three-part series on “What is a Chicano” by actor, director, and art advocate Cheech Marin.

Image Credit: “It is a Brown World After All” by Eloy Torrez, 2006 (oil on canvas, 60″x 60″). Courtesy of Cheech Marin Collection.

As the soldiers bunched together to stay warm, a chant emerged and carried through the valley like a thunderstorm: “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” It echoed off the hills: “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” It was the singular demand of an emerging nation: “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” General Washington stuck his head out of his tent and thought to himself, “I better get these motherfuckers some meat or my ass is grass.”

I mention this bit of history because the other night I was watching the Lakers playing on television. The game had already been decided in the middle of the third quarter by the Lakers’ insurmountable lead. My laptop computer and the Internet now held my attention, but in the waning minutes of the game, I heard a chant start to build from the fans. “TACOS, TACOS, TACOS,” cried the fevered fans. What the hell?

It turns out that Jack in the Box was running a promotion. If the Lakers held their opponents to under 100 points, everybody in the arena would get a free taco. When the final buzzer sounded and the bad guys had scored only 98 points, the crowd erupted in a roar heard in every Jack in the Box in the state. That night, the crowd had achieved the American dream – free tacos. A new chant had come to define America: “TACOS, TACOS, TACOS.” To think, this all started with Fritos.

It used to be that you could go to the supermarket and your choice of chips was limited to potato chips or Fritos. Fritos were as American as apple pie and nobody stopped to think, “Hey, Fritos is a Spanish word meaning fried or toasted.” No, they were just Fritos. They came with your school lunch and with them you could make Frito pie (yum). From there, chips evolved very quickly from Fritos to Tostitos to Doritos. The popularity of these new, potato-less chips was due to their symbiotic relationship with another, newly adopted Mexican staple – guacamole. The chips got bigger and stronger in order to scoop more “Guack.” It was the survival of the dippiest.

The development of the chip presaged the new paradigm in the battle of snack foods. Mainstream food companies were not going to just sit around and become overrun by delicious foods from south of the border. Potato-less chips were bad enough – grilled cheese sandwiches eventually found themselves replaced by, of all things, the quesadilla. What could be done to combat this Mexican menace?

The phrase, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” comes to mind. Thus, the “designer tortilla” was born, but the food would need a new name. They could no longer be called tacos, burritos, or enchiladas because, well, that sounded too Mexican, too niche. The new tortillas needed a name worthy of their new global reach. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to your new, healthy, flat friend called the “wrap.”

I decided to try one just to say that I have now tried everything. Those kinds of food have their own special island in the supermarket – well lit with their own Latino-flavored Muzak emanating from overhead. I approached with caution. There they were so healthy looking, it made me sick. I was just about to pick an imitation crab, beet, radish and endive mix stuffed into a parmesan flaxseed tortilla when something caught my eye … soups!

There was something different about them. I scanned down the line. All the usual suspects were there: cheese and broccoli, chicken vegetable, lobster bisque, and menudo. Menudo? What was menudo doing here on Gourmet Island?

For the uninitiated, menudo is not just a Latino boy band. Menudo is a Mexican soup made out of tripe and hominy. It is the ultimate hangover cure and test of Mexican manliness. If you didn’t grow up eating it, there’s no way you can eat it for the first time as an adult unless you’re Tommy Chong (but everybody always thought he was a Chicano anyways).

Menudoooooo! I started to eat it right there, the wrap a distant memory by now. A little oregano, a little onion, some chili flakes, and a good squeeze of lemon. There I was gliding through the produce isles riding my shopping cart like Aladdin on a magic carpet – except with menudo juice dripping off my chin. Then something else caught my eye.

There, in the meat section, was a whole display of chorizo! However, Jimmy Dean, not Don Juan, made this chorizo. Corporate America had fully embraced Mexican cuisine. They had thrown in the tortilla. It was a great day in America. This called for a beer.

I raced my cart to the end of the aisle and crashed into a display of some new kind of beer that Budweiser was promoting. I picked up the last can to hit my head and read the label: “Chelada,” it said in wavy Mexican script. Chelada is a distinctly Mexican concoction of beer, clamato juice, and lime. This can’t be happening – it’s too good to be true. “Que overkill,” I thought.

I popped the can and chugged it right there in the middle of the store, covered in menudo. I found myself transported back to Cancun on spring break, singing some Van Halen song at the top of my voice. I was still singing when security carried me away, but this time I was singing the new all-American anthem: “TACOS, TACOS, TACOS.”

(Originally published in the Huffington Post on March 20, 2012)

Image Credit: “Los Taqueros” by Margaret Garcia, 2012 (oil on wood panel, 8″h x 11.5″w x 4″d). Courtesy of Cheech Marin Collection.

My passion for collecting and promoting Chicano Art is on display in the latest episode of Second Act. Second Act is a Webby Award winning webseries presented by Yahoo! on their Vitality channel. I’ve embedded the video below for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

You can find out more at The Talk’s website: http://www.cbs.com/shows/the_talk/

Cheech

Hey guys! I wanted to let you all know that Chong and I are going to be appearing at the San Manuel Casino on March 15th.

Tickets will be available soon and you can purchase them at Ticketmaster.

For the past month I’ve been working on the set of a brand new sitcom on CBS called “Rob.” The series premieres this Thursday, January 12th at 8:30/7:30c. “Rob” stars Rob Schneider as a lifelong bachelor and successful landscape architect who, after a whirlwind romance, marries Maggie, a beautiful, smart book translator. Little does Rob realize that he’s also married into Maggie’s tight-knit Mexican-American family.

That’s where I come in. In Rob, I play Fernando, Maggie’s overprotective and judgmental father. My wife, played by the beautiful and talented Diana Maria Riva, and I are not too happy to learn about Maggie’s choice of husband or decision to elope.

Here’s some pictures from the pilot episode.

The very talented Roberto S. Oregel made this small documentary video about my Chicanitas show. Enjoy!

I will be competing on Food Network’s new show, Rachael vs. Guy Celebrity Cook-Off, premiering Sunday, January 1st at 9pm ET/PT. Over the course of six-episodes, hosts Rachael Ray and Guy Fieri will each serve as coaches and mentors to eight multi-talented celebrities as they compete head-to-head.

Divided into ‘Team Rachael’ and ‘Team Guy’, each episode features celebrity contestants battling it out in a fun, fast-paced culinary fight-to-the-finish, with the two bottom-rated contestants from the losing team going head-to-head in a blind tasting elimination challenge.

In the end, the last contestant standing is crowned king or queen of the Celebrity Cook-Off and wins $50,000 for the charity they are playing to support.

My art exhibition, “Chicanitas, Small Paintings from the Cheech Marin Collection,” is touring the country and it just opened up at the Museum of Monterey. Here is part of an interview I did with the Monterey Herald:

Q: What is it about Chicano art that speaks to you?

A: It speaks of the community. What I’ve found after awhile was that Chicano art wasn’t necessarily defined by any particular painting style. What it was defined by was an experience of being Chicano, from a myriad of different view points.

Whether it was religious, gender based, historical based, religious based or abstract even. When you put all these pieces together, you get the whole 360 of what the essence of what the Chicano experience is.

Q: This exhibit features some newer artists. Talk about them.

A: The established artists have been around for a while and earned some recognition. But the newer artists, I was fortunate enough to discover them because of my travels.

Ricardo Ruiz from Corpus Christi. There’s Carlos San Juan of Dallas. There’s this guy Work from El Paso. It’s all coming out of Texas. We’re just trying to give them recognition.

Q: Talk about the name “Chicanitas.”

A: I was going to call it Chicanitos, but then all the women started saying, “Hey, what about us!” I’m like, “Here’s your show, shut up! Now give me a beer.” (Laughs.)

Check out the full article.