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Vice President's Corner

The Gifts of Three Latina Singers

July 3, 2007
By RAUL REYES

My childhood memories are warm and wonderful. Growing up on the edge of East Los Angeles, I was surrounded by my extended Chicano family, which included parents, brothers, aunts and cousins. When we had our frequent get-togethers, our little house came alive, with the adults having heated political discussions about Cesar Chavez while we kids played wild games of tag. Always, in the background, there would be a Vikki Carr record playing.

Vikki Carr held a special place in the hearts of my parents' generation. Not because she was a Grammy-winning entertainer with a string of hits and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was because she was one of us, a Mexican-American, at a time when Latinos and Latinas were barely visible on the national stage.

Carr sang in English and Spanish and was accepted by mainstream audiences either way. Back then, this meant that she also did a lot of explaining about our culture. I remember once seeing her on "The Tonight Show" where, in passing, she said "Mi casa es su casa." And then she actually translated this basic phrase for Johnny Carson, who listened appreciatively.

In college, I took notice when one of the country's most popular singers "came out of the closet" as Mexican. It was Linda Ronstadt, the perfect symbol of the baby boomers and their endless journeys of reinvention. Ronstadt already had many identities; she was the preeminent female rocker of the 1970s, a Broadway star in "The Pirates of Penzance," and the first contemporary artist to popularize standards from the 1940s and '50s.

I came to know her best, however, as a fellow pocho, or Americanized Mexican. Like me, Linda Ronstadt had spent years being conflicted about her heritage, discovering it only later. She admitted that she learned Spanish phonetically so she could record "Canciones de mi padre," her 1987 bestselling tribute to mariachi music.

Ronstadt was unabashed in her public exploration of her roots. Sometimes it was hard, she would say in interviews, living between two cultures and yet not feeling totally comfortable in either one.

I related completely.

Then along came Selena, a young woman who had no doubts about who she was. She was proudly Tex-Mex, the queen of tejano music.

I admired the way she fused pop, rap, cumbia and the old-time rancheras in her songs. I liked how she embraced her Mexican heritage while remaining 100 percent American. And I felt an assimilated Chicano's kinship with her after I learned that the future Latin music superstar had taken years of lessons in order to become fluent in Spanish.

In 1995 I read about Selena's tragic murder on the front page of The New York Times. Afterward I searched the newsstands for her special commemorative issue of People. I never found one. It was sold out everywhere I looked. I remember being astonished that Selena could command so much attention from the media.

But there was more to come. Her posthumous album became a huge crossover hit, and the film about her life made Jennifer Lopez a household name.

I still see sad irony in how Selena's death awakened the United States to the growing influence of Hispanics.

Looking back, I feel great affection toward each of these singers. Vikki Carr was the soundtrack of my childhood. Linda Ronstadt encouraged me to explore my heritage, and Selena taught me to cherish it.

Like millions of other Latinos, I consider these ladies icons, not only for their music but also for their enduring legacies. They've shared our culture with the world, and enriched us all in the process.

Source: Sun Herald