Thursday, December 23, 2010
I first met Eli in Salt Lake City sometime around 2002. David and I were showing some new immigrant neighbors around the city. Eli was playing cello by Temple Square; he called to us and struck up a conversation. I took a photo of him. "Can I have a copy of it when you get it developed?" he asked.
Looking at this photo and knowing what I know now, this must have been shortly after he began playing cello for the passing public.
Tonight, I came across this feature story on a local news site, and I've been riveted by the accompanying YouTube videos since.
Have you ever seen Eli in downtown Salt Lake? What did you think? What did you assume?
Eli: Part 1
Eli: Part 2
My spirit is stirred up. Listen to him speak in these interviews! I am awakened. I am most engaged by the contrast of the man drawn out to speak his thoughts and the man most of us think we see on the Salt Lake City sidewalks. I am moved that someone slowed down enough to see another human and took the time to draw stories from Eli. Amazing.
We can never know each other until we quiet ourselves. We will learn years about a person in one hour of listening.
Ever wonder how a man surviving on street performance ever learned the cello? What is Eli's background? Someone doesn't just find a cello lying around and play like this! And how does someone who can play like this end up nearly homeless? Who is Eli?
With so many questions, I correct my first statement.
Every person is a compilation of stories.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
"But it's Christmas!"
I'm sorry. You shouldn't have said anything.
Back to my woes with earlier potty-training incidents of the beloved toddler...
~ ~ ~
She poops her underwear, and I carefully guide it down to keep the poop contained. Easy... easy... easy... I get one leg out and lower the underwear to the ground. She proceeds to put the foot of her free leg down. Right smack in the middle of it. Yes, it.
~ ~ ~
She poops her underwear and I again carefully guide the panty down to keep the poop contained. Easy... easy... I get one leg out and guide it back, so she steps down away from it. Ah. Success. Now, the second leg... just do the same--- she jerks her second leg backwards to get away from the nasty poop she has just become aware of and the brown mass flips out of the underwear and plops soundly onto the floor. Ugh.
~ ~ ~
She poops her underwear. I've learned this time. No trying to remove the panty carefully. I back the child up to the toilet. The idea is to flip her panty and have the mass plop right into the toilet, minimizing the mess. I am being really careful, watching to make sure it lands in the bowl. It rolls... it plops right in. (Yes!) I don't anticipate the splash. Right. On. My. Face. I am stunned and disgusted. Then, I am angry. Then, I laugh. And then, I scrub my face with soap. Really hard.
~ ~ ~
Another morning, I walk into the toddler's room, and before I throw open her curtains, I am greeted by undeniable non-visual proof that there is poop firmly present. The toddler chirps out "po-po!" She is tugging at the back of her PJ's, and I see that some of the stuff has crept up her lower back.
Fortunately, this time she has on a Pull-Up which means no careful balancing of stuff on fabric. I stick the kid in the bathtub and rip off the Pull-Up and throw it in the trash. I am smugly satisfied. As I am washing her off in the bathtub, the toddler decides to balance herself. With the hand she used to tug at the back of her poopy pants. By holding on to MY LIPS.
Words cannot describe how unsettled this makes me.
I purse my lips together to prevent the poop germs from migrating in, though I am sure they are cackling and lunging at my tongue. I wash my mouth area with the only soap available in the immediate vicinity: antibacterial hand soap.
I don't know if all antibacterial soap has this effect when applied to lips, but surely, the cheap brand I replenish my bathrooms with does. The sensation on my lips reminds me of the scene in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" in which the Nazi soldiers make the mistake of looking at the ark when it is opened. And then, their faces melt off. Such is the sensation on my lips.
As I dry my lips, the feeling is replaced by the one of intense negative 100 humidity. If this soap was a lipstick, it would be named Desiccated. And it would be the most accurate lip color ever. I apply copious amounts of moisturizer to my lips, to no avail.
Desiccated. Look for it at beauty counter near you.
~ ~ ~
I do not like poop.
Friday, December 10, 2010
I still remember where I was when she was declared found after being missing for 9 months. I was gardening outside of my apartment when a UPS truck pulled into the parking lot of the complex. The UPS man yelled at me, "They found her!"
"What?" I had no clue what he was talking about.
"They found Elizabeth Smart!"
"What??" I may have asked for clarification on whether "found" meant her body.
"She's alive!" he yelled.
That's when I noticed the radio in the brown truck blasting the breaking news.
"Wow," I uttered, paused in place. "Wow..."
I was overcome with emotions and awe at the miracle. Alive. All this time.
And man, is she ever. I am sure she has difficult days, but boy, she still has life! She keeps great composure, communicates clearly and with conviction, and has taken on to do the challenging work of serving a year-and-a-half mission for the LDS Church. I am constantly amazed by the glorious persons we can emerge as from even the filthiest of ashes and am ever grateful when I learn from others' examples.
I have never met the girl (now woman), and I never participated in her search, but Elizabeth Smart's disappearance and discovery has always been another testimony to me that we humans are made from one energy, a part from our Creator. This is the reason we unite to celebrate arrivals and departures of life at births and funerals. We feel it a part to say "hello" or "see you later" to parts of our life energy. In between these landmark events, we tend to forget of our eternal ties to each other, and I believe that some of the experiences of our lives (both the greatest and the most painful) serve as reminders of the infinite nature of our connection to each other and to our God.
One day, we will more clearly recognize the eternal relationships to each other; until then, we are simply commanded to "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep" (Romans 12:15).
Friday, December 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
You know this is not my typical blog post,
but I HAD to share this with you local peeps!
Rod Works currently has $25 gift certificates for only $15!!
That's a 40% discount.
Stack that with one of their coupons in circulation and
that's 65% off or more!
Click here for the deal!
I had to say it.
(These certificates are good for the Lehi, Draper, Layton, and Springville locations.)
OH! I forgot to mention:
Rod Works is also having a food drive.
When you bring in 10 or more canned or boxed non-perishable food items
to any of the Utah Rod Works locations between Nov 29 and Dec 4,
you will receive $10 off your purchase!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
- buy thermals for a paragliding launch next week
- call the paragliders to confirm
- call the babysitter to confirm
- schedule impromptu family photo shoot for Monday
- delete all data from two cell phones
- the carpet cleaners come in the morning
- at the same time that I am supposed to pick up produce at the co-op
- at the same time my husband is supposed to be at a ping-pong tournament
Also, my husband told me today his job will be sending him to Puerto Rico for two weeks. And "oh, by the way", he is actually getting up at 5:30am this Saturday to go raccoon hunting.
This is not our life. Whose life is this???
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I first attempted this thing a few months ago, as you know. I had no clue what I was doing. I had not researched anything. I had not read anything. I had bought panties. I was ready.
That went swell.
Four hours and 17 panties later, I wanted nothing to do with toddler training. The toddler continues to say otherwise. She is showing all the signs of readiness and I pretend to not see them. Nope, not going there.
Potty training continues to beckon, and I can no longer ignore its call. If I don't potty train this child soon, I will scar her forever, and she will cry to her therapist about how she has commitment issues because her mom refused to potty train her.
General Conference weekend is coming up. No work, no church, no embarrassing accidents. That is the window.
Procrastination shows up.
The day prior to Training Weekend, I am still unprepared with information. A friend emails me a potty-training e-book. The book says I should do some prep work a week or two before diving into training. I say in defiance, "Screw it. WE'RE GOING FOR THE GOLD!"
Husband and I decide to just tell the child to let us know when she has to pee. Have I mentioned our 2-year-old doesn't talk? (Really.) And here I am telling her to simply tell me. Sounds like a good idea. The book states so.
So, the child tells me the only way she knows how: she
By the end of Day 1, my back is spontaneously giving out from all the bending over to clean and squatting down to talk to her at eye level. But I have hope. HOPE. She begins notifying us when she needs to go. She is tired of the wet.
Pee everywhere! It is like a battle scene in a Sheen war movie. KA-BLAM! SPLASH! CONFUSION EVERYWHERE!
There is screaming and crying all day long! I am embarrassed to say they do not come from the child. Everything comes undone. She doesn't tell us anything, and she's peeing every 5 minutes.
By the end of Day 2, I wonder if I am doing things right. I may have accidentally read the "Make Mommy Cry" eBook. It is definitely spot on with technique. Everyone goes to bed early.
The one success: she goes #2 while on the potty, and we celebrate the heck out of that. Sweetened Cereal, Chocolate, Money. She gets it.
I decide to stop counting days because it is making me sad. Also, crazy.
Day number something
We teach her the hand sign for potty. She does great! She tells us when she needs to go and gets everything in the toilet! This is EAZZY!
Day # 'nother day
She pees through every pair of panties she owns. At one instance, I catch her in the act of peeing. She runs away from me and hides in her playhut. This freakin' sucks!
Day something or other:
She does pretty well for the day. She decides to try something else in the evening, specifically, peeing on the leather couch. She accurately interprets Mommy's convulsions to mean I do not want her doing that. A few minutes and a change of clothes later, she sits on her scriptures so her new pee will not go onto the leather couch. I should convulse more specifically.
A week later
She is doing well-ish. A few accidents here and there, although some of the accidents do not look like they are done on accident. I go upstairs to check on the baby, leaving the toddler eating a snack at the table. I return downstairs to find the toddler squatting on the kitchen table surrounded by a lake of pee. (Dinner invitation, anyone?)
She has also stopped using the "toilet" hand sign to tell us when she needs to go potty. However, as soon as she finds out Mommy is using the bathroom, the toddler runs in shaking her little "t" fist in the air.
Thanks for the notice, kid.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I could feel them and even taste them. It was a very rich mental image.
The next day, this happened:
I kid you not; that's my kitchen sink. Those are 33 red bell peppers I acquired for free. Thirty of them are currently enjoying a nice hibernation in my freezer.
(I don't know the exact mechanics of how this type of thing works, but it happens to me a lot. I wrote about a similar instance here. If anyone out there experiences stuff like this, send me an email and tell me how it works for you.)
I love red bell peppers, and they, apparently love me. Lookie what I found as I was coring the bell peppers.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
When I got to my booth, I pulled out my little cheat-sheet of who to vote for based on my harried research. I think I passed the test. We then went out for voting ice cream and celebrated the American way by getting fat.
Did you vote? Will you vote next time? I admit I was tempted to not vote because the husband was out of town this past month, leaving me with little energy and no time to myself to study the candidates. I will share with you one of the main reasons I cast my vote tonight despite all the other reasons against my doing so.
I received an email three weeks ago which I will post below just as it was sent to me (originally written by Connie Schultz of The Plain Dealer, Cleveland). I have verified its contents as true and correct, so please take the time to let this information sink in to your being.
My only question is: How come this was not taught in any of my U.S. History classes?
The info and pictures below are worth reading and knowing about. Grandmothers paid a very dear price to achieve this right.
Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.
The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.
And by the end of the night, they were barely alive.
Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'
They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.
They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.
Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.
When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.
So, refresh my memory. Some women won't vote this year because - why, exactly? We have carpool duties? We have to get to work? Our vote doesn't matter? It's raining?
(Mrs. Pauline Adams in the prison garb she wore while serving a sixty-day sentence.)
Last week, I went to a sparsely attended screening of HBO's new movie 'Iron Jawed Angels.' It is a graphic depiction of the battle these women waged so that I could pull the curtain at the polling booth and have my say. I am ashamed to say I needed the reminder.
(Miss Edith Ainge, of Jamestown , New York )
All these years later, voter registration is still my passion. But the actual act of voting had become less personal for me, more rote. Frankly, voting often felt more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes it was inconvenient.
(Berthe Arnold, CSU graduate)
My friend Wendy, who is my age and studied women's history, saw the HBO movie, too. When she stopped by my desk to talk about it, she looked angry. She was--with herself. 'One thought kept coming back to me as I watched that movie,' she said. 'What would those women think of the way I use, or don't use, my right to vote? All of us take it for granted now, not just younger women, but those of us who did seek to learn.' The right to vote, she said, had become valuable to her 'all over again.'
HBO released the movie on video and DVD . I wish all history,social studies and government teachers would include the movie in their curriculum I want it shown on Bunco night, too, and anywhere else women gather. I realize this isn't our usual idea of socializing, but we are not voting in the numbers that we should be, and I think a little shock therapy is in order.
(Conferring over ratification [of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution] at [National Woman's Party] headquarters, Jackson Pl [ace] [ Washington , D.C. ]. L-R Mrs. Lawrence Lewis, Mrs. Abby Scott Baker, Anita Pollitzer, Alice Paul, Florence Boeckel, Mabel Vernon (standing, right))
It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy.
The doctor admonished the men: 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'
Please, if you are so inclined, pass this on to all the women you know. We need to get out and vote and use this right that was fought so hard for by these very courageous women. Whether you vote democratic, republican or independent party - remember to vote.
(Helena Hill Weed, Norwalk , Conn. Serving 3 day sentence in D.C. prison for carrying banner, 'Governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed.')
History is being made.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The season starts a little different than other years in that our Halloween decorations are attacked over several days by a loose dog in the neighborhood. So annoying! Our scary cat is salvageable; I will see what I can do about "restoring" our black crow.
Feeling clueless about what to do for the holiday this year, I google for local events. The first link I find is for a witches' tea party at a popular hotel. I think, "Oh, that might be fun to take Little Adhis!" As I read, I find that it is not an event to go to dressed up as a witch; it is an event for people who ARE witches, specifically mentioned: witches, Wiccans, and pagans. So, yeah- no.
The second link I find is for local haunted houses, except it turns out, it is not for houses decked out to look haunted but actual buildings reputed to have paranormal activity. Hm. Google is needing a "what's your intention?" feature. I ditch Google and use other resources.
I discover through Heather's Facebook photos a neat little pumpkin patch nearby. We get our family out the door the first morning of David's return from one of his work trips. We enjoy a pleasant morning of gathering celebratory gourds. Pick a wheelbarrow and off we go!
Guess who got some new teeth to boot?
In place of spending some extra duckets visiting the harvest festivities down the street from my 'hood, we head to Gardner Village. As we pull up to the area, we notice quite the plethora of cars overflowing the sides of the streets. By magic, we quickly find a parking space right next to the properties. We notice groups of women in witch attire walking to Gardner Village. Upon entering the Village, we find ourselves at the Witches' Gathering.
A few minutes into our stroll, I realize I have not properly prepared my toddler for Halloween because every time I say, "Look at that witch," she looks all around and into the sky searching for whatever object I might be describing with my strange new word. To add to the confusion, she does not know why there are so many people dressed so oddly.
After looking into the crowd a while, David looks at me and says, "I don't understand why one is dressed like a sandwich." His face goes blank, and then he utters, "Oh" and starts laughing. It's cute when it takes him a little longer to get a joke.
At the church's suddenly-indoor-due-to-rain trunk-or-treat, Little Adhis becomes overwhelmed with all the costumes and crowding and scary things. Just too much stimulation for a girl who has never seen such things and whose days typically move at a much slower pace.
Being a neat and orderly kind of girl, she deduces the purpose of the evening is to collect things and put them in her bag. Or back into people's bowls. Whichever is more practical.
Though it rains for much of the early evening, Little Dhis and I head out to trick-or-treat while David and Maya stay home handing out glow bracelets. I love going out into the night, just she and me. It is not even about the candy but about going for a walk, seeing things and having fun. (Fun for her being going "knock-knock" on people's doors. She loves that.)
My only regret of the night is wishing I had my camera with me when I get to my neighbor Tracy's house. (This stolen photo off Facebook will have to do). Tracy opens the door in her Lucille Ball get up and yells into the house, "Ricky, come to the door! Sister (MyLastName) is here!"
I say, "You do not have a Ricky in there." And right then her husband Daniel comes in adding weight to his Venezuelan accent, "Oh- well, hello there!"
I don't know what else is said because I am laughing.
Oh, yes! I LOVE Halloween!
Friday, October 29, 2010
So... I... set this aside after four hours and 17 panties.
My daughter continues telling me (non-verbally) she wants to use the grown-up toilet. I ignore her. I do not want to go there. (I mean, *I* "go" there. I'm referring to "go there" as revisiting the topic of potty training.) (You knew that. Right?) (Just making sure.)
Anyway, I ignore her pleas. When I put her down for a nap, she cries if I did not let her sit on the toilet beforehand. During play time, I find her contentedly sitting on the toilet. I ignore all this. No way. No how.
Today, my daughter comes into the office and lets me know she needs her diaper changed. (Did I forget to mention that is another sign I have been ignoring?) She leads me into her room where I find she has laid out a changing pad, a clean diaper, and a tub of wipes for me to change her. Then, she lies down on the changing pad.
Half way through changing her I realize I need diaper cream. Just then, my cell phone rings, and I answer it. I must have gotten the cream out of her closet, but by the time I hang up the phone, I have forgotten all about it. I pause, trying to remember what I am doing. My daughter notices my confusion, grabs the cream and hands it to me.
That is where I realize a decision has been made for me. The toddler is either virtually ready to change her own diaper, or it's time for hell and its stinky, wet fury.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
You spoke up. You objected, but I drowned out your voice. You slowly gave in and now fiercely pay for my misdeeds. I toyed with fire, and you've been burned. Your friend Spirit has suffered and gone.
Your muscles have been hurting, your lungs have lost strength, your mind has lost sleep, your skin has been stretched. Spirit was cramped from sharing space with these aches. Crankiness and creekiness left it gasping for Air.
No more runs for suppliers this month. I promise I will wrestle addiction with you and win the maiden Spirit. I will allow tremors and mood swings to shake off these shackles. I will allow the weight of abstinence snuff out longing. I will allow the battle to rack my habits. I will allow cleansing to begin. I will let you heal and regain strength. I will allow rest to ease your pains.
And Spirit will return through your doors and say, "I am home again."
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Wouldn't it be way FUNNER if the government stopped bailing businesses out? Then, people could stop with the false sense that all is as it has been and start making their adjustments to wearing paperboy hats and hanging laundry out on a line. No one would feel the pressure to pretend they have more money than they do. We could again start using cash from our mattresses to pay for purchases and when the money ran out, we'd stop buying stuff. Isn't that a clever idea?
We could also do co-op everything! Not just cleaning co-op or food co-op, but also babysitting co-op, errand co-op, dinner co-op, and pedicure co-op. And for the over-initiated, maybe even a co-op co-op!
Speaking of... One of the reasons I enjoy participating in the Bountiful Baskets grocery co-op is because each week they include some item that I do not regularly (or ever) purchase on my own, such as artichoke or eggplant or canary melon or acorn squash or table grapes. Every time I figure out what to do with the food, I feel more confident that I could feed my family no matter what commodity I was left with in harsh economic conditions. Of course, that's assuming I still have access to Google and recipe searches during said calamity.
Since my original post two years ago, neighbors have come and gone and come. Therefore, I will now add to my list of people I call dibs on (please, refer to my old list to know who I already have claim on) should our country be allowed to experience an economic depression:
I call dibs on Amanda Howells for her square foot gardening know-how, Megan Knorpp for her chicken-raising prowess, Heather English for her heathen hooligans to cause mayhem for those who think to trespass my storage shelter, Mariah Fralick for her creative food storage cuisine, and Tracie Goettig to sew us some fashionable frocks. I also call dibs on whomever moves into the house behind mine since it currently sits on a glorious field of dandelions to make enough gorgeous salads to sustain me and my staff through the Millennium.
Also since my original post, Jason Mraz has ruined the allure of the straw fedora for the aged population, so as a reminiscent old woman, I will resort simply to regaling my grandchildren with stories of the old days as I pick shriveled buds off my rose shrub out front whilst wearing a polyester dress tucked into the back of my pantyhose.
Government, get out of the business of bailing little Johnny from his oopsies! A real economic adjustment would be fun.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Like being at home, cooped up away from the sun and adult conversation to care for little people who have not yet learned how to say "thank you"?
Like typing up meeting minutes and newsletters that no one reads?
Like writing blog posts for a blog that no one visits?
Like making gestures of friendship to a person who shows no interest in being nice?
Like doing laundry that will again be done the following day?
Like going to bed early knowing you will still wake up tired?
Like exercising even though your pants keep getting tighter?
Like reading scriptures even though your heart still feels weighed down?
Like pinching pennies even though they are already squealing?
Like keeping calm when someone is yelling at you even though you feel like crying?
Like cooking meals your kids may or may not feed to the table legs?
Like standing up for what you know to be true even though you will be mocked?
Does what you do matter?
Yes. It does.
Maybe there will be no evidence of it today. And probably no evidence tomorrow. But if you keep doing the righteous things with integrity and consistency, the results will appear when gestation is complete. What seems microscopic now is growing. Undetectably perhaps, but it is growing. The consistent deed grows exponentially until one day (soon? later?) it reaches momentum and proof explodes undeniable that, yes, what you do matters.
Keep being. Keep doing. Keep at it. You matter and your work matters.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I haven't yet gracefully transitioned into Mommy of More Than One. After a couple months of recovering from surgery, I was craving to do something
I may have gone a little overboard.
- I've been writing a personal finance blog. (LDS Money Blog)
- I'm training my post-partum saggy buns for a 5K. (I'm waking up at 6am to do it. Yeah, I don't believe it either.)
- I'm growing a garden.
- I'm teaching Sunday school at church. (Old Testament. Yikerz!)
- I'm reading conference talks to discuss with the husband at night.
- I'm refinancing the house. (OK- this was completed a week ago. But still. That was lots of work!)
- I'm coordinating a personal finance class in the community. (If you've been wanting to take Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University course, and you're local, contact me ASAP!)
- I'm serving on the neighborhood Homeowners' Association (HOA) Board.
- I'm learning to cook on less money. (Oh! Just last month, I had an impromptu challenge where I fed my family on $21 for 21 days.)
- I'm part of a cleaning co-op in the 'hood. (If you are in the 'hood and interested in participating, call me!)
- I'm still a wife and a mom with all their accompanying responsibilities.
So, yes, I am here.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Here is his description:
"He's described as a Hispanic male in his mid-20s, about 5 feet 7 inches to 5 feet 8 inches tall and weighs 190 pounds."
People in the comments laughed: "That's hilarious!!! Don't hispanic males have dark skin? The description fits 90% of the hispanic male population until they get to the weight. A 190 pound hispanic male???"
Twenty-one countries claim Spanish as their official language. Still, when people think "Hispanic," this is what they imagine for each of those countries:
And, certainly, not this:
They think this is Hispanic music:
When it is also this:
Hispanic heroes are jokes:
But they are also iconic:
Though there are Hispanics who look like this:
People still imagine this:
I am Venezuelan:
But when people hear "Venezuelan" they think this:
Even though the reigning Miss Venezuela looks like this:
And the previous Miss Venezuela looks like this:
I do not negate that there are Hispanics who look like this:
But they also look like this:
Yes, Hispanics look like my sister and my nieces:
But they also look like my brothers and my mom:
Yes, Hispanics look like my sister-in-law, but they also look like my nephew.
I have been told I'm not Caucasian enough, and I have been told I'm not Hispanic enough. I suppose someone should tell that to my parents, grandparents and great grandparents. And while they're at it, my great great grandparents.
If the world you live in dictates that a Hispanic person is brown and up to no good, then turn off the TV and turn on your mind.