By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
Dear Mexican: I was driving home on King Road in San José, where a bunch of Mexicans live, and I noticed that almost every house had their Christmas lights still hanging from the rafters, with the reindeer and Santa Claus decorations weathered by the hot sun on the roofs. It's the middle of May, ¿qué onda? Are my gente so festive that it's hard to get over the holiday cheer? I mean, my mom would give me nalgadas if I didn't take ours down the day after the Reyes came and went. Your thoughts on this holiday phenomenon? —Confused Wab
Dear Wab: Mexicans never get over the Navidad because we never stop partying—everyone knows that! In fairness, our celebration of the winter holidays goes on much longer than that of gabacho Christians. We start off with Las Posadas, a re-creation of Mary and Joseph's search for lodging in Bethlehem that occurs daily for eight days until Christmas Eve and always involves caroling, piñatas, and posole. Christmas Eve brings the Rosary at an aunt's house, tamales, and flirting with your second cousin; Misa del Gallo (Rooster's Mass) celebrates the birth of the Nazarene at midnight and follows with more food. The actual Christmas holiday is an afterthought, because Mexican kiddies traditionally don't receive their presents until January 6—what gabachos call the Epiphany and Mexicans deem el Día de los Reyes Magos (the Feast Day of the Magi). Then comes the cruelest form of child abuse that Mexican parents can inflict on their niños—giving them an Xbox 360 package stuffed with . . . underwear and socks.
I asked you a question a couple of months ago. I don't regularly read your column, so can you e-mail me to let me know when it's going to run? —Chula in Chula Vista
Dear Readers: For my year-end column, I usually run a question in which someone has called me a pussy for not answering their misspelled rant. But over the past year, I've received variants of the above pregunta much more often. The answer ultimately remains the same: patience, gabachos, negritos, chinitos, mariposas, wabs, and everyone else who reads this column—patience. The ¡Ask a Mexican! archive is now about 260 pages of preguntas I've yet to answer. To specifically contestar the above question: Lo siento, but I will not alert you when I finally get to your query—what do you think I am, a pinche Google alert? Nor will I individually answer you, as that would cut into my salary, and I'd then have to take up a second job at the corner of 7-Eleven, selling fake phone cards. However, my promise remains: I will eventually respond in my column, whether in a week or in a couple of years. It's your duty to read the Mexican, week in and week out, until I get there, and continue to spread my gospel in the meanwhile. And ustedes have done an amazing job of that: 2008 has seen the Mexican invade 39 newspapers, so that over two million people read the dead-tree edition of this column and muchos more online. Gracias, thank you, thank you for all your nice words, angry screeds, and spicy señoritas who become my MySpace friends; without your support, I'd be fighting a Guatemalan for a broom. The Mexican will be in Mexico next week trying to smuggle in the last of his relatives into los Estados Unidos, so a best-of column will appear in its place; after that week, though, back to your queries about dwarves, anal sex, and what that has to do with corn tortillas. Feliz Navidad, Próspero Año Nuevo, and don't let la migra catch you!