Gil was the quintessential Chicano teacher. He was one of those vato locos who traded in their graffiti ink markers for chalk and blackboard. His classroom was adorned with the pictures of the heroes who helped him make sense of life: Zapata, Cesar, Villa, Che. He taught his third grade students how to sing De Colores, after asking his Mexicana mother to supply him with the lyrics. Of course, she didn't know them off-hand. So he had to turn to colleagues to fill in the missing verse. In the end, pudgy little eight year olds, of all colors, stood in a circle holding hands and giggling as they sang the evasive words to De Colores. He, also, had an eight-year-old daughter who he unconsciously spoiled despite his intentions to the contrary. This was probably due to the overwhelming guilt he felt for only being allowed to visit with her every other weekend. Evidently, his daughter's mother had no such issues with guilt. After all, she toiled over the kid "twenty four seven." She even got married in order to have someone "help" her raise the child. The fact that he was a pinto appeared to be of little consequence to her.

Gil was a tall, lanky Chicano, more inclined to play basketball than grade papers. Although the cause of a very poor self image during his teens, the tall slender frame was quite becoming now that he had entered his 30's, which afforded him the luxury of being able to fill out in a more aesthetic manner. Suddenly, being thin wasn't so bad. One by one, his homeboys and other colleagues were looking more and more like the Poncho Panson piggy banks that were often purchased while on summer trips to Tijuana when he was a boy.

He lived and worked very closely to the barrio where he came up. His dream of teaching at the elementary school that he had attended was ever-present in his list of ultimate goals. Like the many Chicano professionals who had came and went before him, as well as a few of his contemporaries, he was plagued with that gnawing feeling of responsibility to help his people by whatever means he could.

He made a modest living and was forever reminded of this modesty by the older members of his family who had amassed their fortunes through the labors and toils of such trades as roofing, upholstery, and carpet laying. Diplomas and college degrees meant nothing to his family who were busying themselves with being perplexed by the fact that he could neither afford to buy a house nor drive a fine car. Did not Albert (his brother) own a four-bedroom home, two cars, four kids, and a wife who did not need to work - and all without the luxury of graduating high school? Gil's father must have been right all along by his repeated decry that Albert was never afraid of "hard work." Gil's toils in college made it possible for him to rent a one-bedroom apartment and drive a new Honda, the Mercedes of Chicano schoolteachers.

His education had not taken him far from the barrio, a fact that left him thankful and very satisfied for he was able to maintain friendships with a lot of his old buddies. Many had not reached the level of "prestige" that Gil presently found himself in. Like his brothers, none had finished high school nor attended even local universities (although some did earn degrees in prisonology - the one degree that the government is all too quick to hand out.) A few of his friends had a more than fleeting relationship with drugs and alcohol. But Gil did not judge his homeboys and kept them all in his highest regard.

He also had his college and work buddies - tamer, more conservative versions of the hood rats of his youth. As a result, he often entertained guests that included folks who were hooked on drugs, folks who sold drugs, and folks who counseled those who were on drugs. It was all very incestuous, but Gil was mildly amused by the variety of Chicanos in his life, and he got a kick out of introducing people who were never meant or destined to ever cross the other's path. On this day, he decided to have lunch at one of the hundreds of fast food-taquerias that dotted the city. He rarely frequented this particular taqueria because he seldom carried cash and consequently was at the mercy of those eateries that accepted debit cards. But today was payday and he was armed with real money - legal tender.

This was a larger taqueria. It had many booths to accommodate the nine-to-five lunch crowd. Today it was decorated with a variety of hungry patrons, Chicanos in blue workmen uniforms, Mexicana mother's attempting to feed their children healthy frijoles and arroz rather than the kid's meals that many are conditioned and brainwashed to crave, and even a few Asians and Anglos who enjoyed the flavors that only Mexican food, especially fish tacos, brought to their awaiting palates. The customer in line ahead of Gil rode in on a Harley. The back of his helmet showed off a sticker that read "support your Chicano biker."

Gil had heard her laughter before he turned his head to the source. Apparently she was in very joyful spirits, often doubling up with fits of laughter. Her silliness did not detract from a simple beauty that she possessed. In fact, it added to it. The glasses she wore did not hide her pretty face and green eyes. Green eyes! He knew in advance what some of his more militant friends would accuse had they witnessed the object of Gil's attraction and how caught-up he had become with her in a matter of mere seconds. But he had no doubt that she was 100 percent Mexican, her green eyes were merely an accident of fate.

She was with a group of older Mexicanas who reeked of Social Services. To Gil these women always seemed to resemble his aunts and other ladies from the barrio, only these women wore expensive shoes and very trendy handbags. Also, their hair was usually better taken care of and made up with the latest tried-and-true styles of the Chicana professional.

Gil stationed himself at a table directly next to the women so as to get a better look. She was noticeably thin and wore a tight one-piece cotton workout dress (that only the very thin can get away with in office settings). The women spoke mostly Spanish; a few words of English were inserted here and there for exclamatory effect. Their jovial conversation consisted of office politics, who owed who money, and other things that make going to lunch in groups worthwhile.

Her name as far as he could tell through his eavesdropping was Yolanda. Yolanda with the pretty green eyes, olive skin, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Happy Yolanda - who seemed to enjoy the company of her co-workers to no end.

Gil's skill at coquetry was a bit rusty. He made a few attempts at catching Yolanda's eye by getting up to refill his drink and by going to the condiment bar to grab a handful of lemon wedges and fresh jalapeños. Each time he passed, she looked at him and offered a quick smile. He ate as slow as he could in an attempt to stay in the taqueria for as long as the group did. Presently their lunch hour expired. As Yolanda got out of her seat and walked past him, she gave him one more glance. He quickly got up from his table in pursuit. As he attempted speak to her, her beauty fumbled his words. He managed to hand his card to her and convey that he would like her to call him so that they could talk more. She kept a cheerful demeanor throughout, not showing whether he one way or the other impressed her.

However, her companions offered the Chicano teacher a cold reception. They no doubt concluded that he was obviously only a few years out from the street and la pachucada. Their faces of slate revealed that chasm of ignorance that keeps Chicanos and Mexicanos separate. It was irrelevant to them that Gil shared a great affinity towards all Mexicanos as well as other Latinos. Like many political Chicanos, Gil had the "audacity" to adhere to the belief that all Latinos were borne of common indigenous blood. Apparently, the slate faces were not of this opinion. They came up with their own conclusions with regards to this through both hearsay and past personal experiences. Situations like these invariably left Gil frustrated and confused.

Yolanda accepted the card and threw him one final smile as she and the other women made their exit. In reality, Gil and Yolanda most likely shared little in common. Unlike Gil who was born in Aztlan, USA, Yolanda was born in Mexico, USA. Although both of their parents emigrated from Mexico, Gil's made it to Aztlan in the early 50's in the midst of "Operation Wetback." Yolanda's parents didn't arrive until way into the mid 70's, the era of Mojado Power. Yolanda was the eldest of four children and Gil was the baby of nine. At face value, they made a handsome couple, or at least Gil was inclined to think. But cultural rifts and political vagaries would most likely keep this most precious gem away from the sticky fingers of Gil, the scoundrel.

On the drive back to work, Yolanda was challenged by the señoras with questions of are you really going to call him? And consejos regarding los hombres de aqui. In fact, there was nothing novel about men approaching Yolanda with intentions of romance during their lunch hours. Yolanda had the unmistakable good looks that appealed to all Latinos. However, she had never gone out with the likes of Gil.

She took a long, good look at the business card he presented her - the handsome font, the immaculate white background, smooth cardstock, and distinguished purple lettering. Gilbert Ramos. Teacher. Chicano. Hombre de aqui. After a few moments of study, she gave the card a quick toss where, and it landed on the dashboard next to a chewing gum wrapper, assorted rubber bands, and a pair of dusty, discarded sunglasses. And then they resumed their lunchtime conversation about who was being mean to whom back in the office.