Scarface (For A While) Killed The Latino Actor

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the release of Scarface. I saw Scarface when I was 10 and all I thought was, “Coño, Cubans are some cutthroat mofos.” It wasn’t until my college years when I realized the impact it had on my generation. Rappers, in particular, used Tony Montana’s story as inspiration and sprinkled references in their rhymes. Once I found out Tony was really an Italian-American actor from New York, it made think differently of the film. Is this how America perceives Latinos? Immigrants who take the easy way out and push dope to get the American Dream. First you get the money, then you get the power and then, apparently, you upgrade from a Latina to Michelle Pfeiffer.

Five years ago I attended a party for the 20th anniversary of Scarface. It was for work and it was in Puerto Rico. And yes, the trip was dope. The scene was grand with cigar rollers, models and rappers all around. Jay-Z flew in by way of helicopter to perform a few tracks. Hey, I told you it was grand. I saw Pharrell for the first time looking like an ant could out-bench-press him. The point I’m trying to make is that for all its influence all these cats didn’t realize the harm it did to Latinos. After Scarface, a Latino was regulated to playing the greasy drug dealer (Miami Vice, Traffic, Empire), who in the end always lost. And in the end we lost as well.

Uno,

Jesus

Meet My Niece Maria, I Mean, Morgan

So after doing some power prayers to the almighty G-O-D my pregnant sister, Mercedes is not pregnant anymore. She gave birth to a baby girl this past Sunday; she’s a preemie just like her uncle was back in 1980. She’s a tiny, tiny human being…all of four pounds. The doctors say she’ll be home for Christmas. Now on to her name. My big sis named her first-born Madison. Umm. OK. She named the new one Morgan. This wouldn’t much to talk about if my sister was raised on suburbia or even married a fella of say the Caucasian persuasion. But it’s odd because she married a Puerto Rican with a Puerto Rock last name.

Of course, she can name her children what she wishes because, well, they were in her. And I’m not subjecting my boy to ridicule by naming him “Jesus” or “Jose” or any other stereotype. But how do I explain to my fellow spicaroos that I have two nieces named Madison and Morgan without cracking a smile. Maybe my sister is thinking ahead and wants her fair-skinned babies to get ahead in the corporate ladder with squeaky clean names. I just know it’ll probably be my job to add sazon to their lily-white upbringing. Plus, my mother’s broken English should make-up for anything I forget.

Uno,

Jesus