Hometown.

I've been in Zapata for the last few days; thus, the blog entries from my 9-year old step-brother, Mario Solis.

Zapata is a very different place. Everyone is the same ethnicity. We're all Mexican-American. Some people have been on the US side longer than others. Some people speak more English than others. The two are not linearly correlated. Just because someone has lived here their entire life does not mean he/she speaks English. Also, everyone knows everyone. They know you and your family and your extended family. They know who is married, who is divorced, who is sleeping with who. People know which children are not quite their father's children, etc. If a new car is seen in someone's driveway, then you'll get a phone call from someone wondering whose car that is. In a way it's a good thing. It keeps you safe. It should help keep people in line, away from things they shouldn't be doing. It's also odd though. You lose the anonymity that a big city offers. In a bigger city, you lead your life without worrying about what other people see and about what they think.

There's also no grass. Well, lawns with grass are rare and apparently need to be watered twice a day. It is so dry here. Plots of land just have dirt with pebbles and mesquite tree. Yucca and sage brush are peppered in. Women were lots of make-up. And I mean lots! Penciled in eyebrows, thick black eyeliner in the middle of the daytime, you get my drift. And there are many trucks, trucks with family names on their windows, "Bustamante," "Hernandez," "La Chula," "La Gorda," "El Shorty." Anyhow, I understand why people occasionally doubt my ethnicity. I'm missing the three kids, heavy make-up and monographed vehicle window.