Texas and U.S. Relations With Mexico

The Texas Revolution was a conflict between Mexico and settlers in the Texas portion of the Mexican state. The war lasted from October 2, 1835 to April 21, 1836. However, a war at sea between Mexico and Texas would continue into the 1840s. Animosity between the Mexican government and the American settlers in Texas (who were called Texians) began with the Siete Leyes of 1835, when Mexican President and General Antonio López de Santa Anna abolished the Constitution of 1824 and proclaimed a new anti-federalist constitution in its place. The new laws were unpopular throughout Mexico, leading to violence in several states. 

There were many causes of the tension that began building between Texas and Mexico. Texians were becoming increasingly disillusioned with the Mexican government. Many of the Mexican soldiers stationed in Texas were convicted criminals who were given the choice of prison or serving in the army in Texas. Some American immigrants and Mexican citizens were accustomed to the rights they had in the U.S. that they did not have in Mexico. Mexico, for example, did not protect Freedom of Religion, instead requiring colonists to pledge their acceptance of Roman Catholicism. 

Despite the different rules in Mexico, the number of American immigrants entering Texas quickly escalated. Santa Anna believed that the increase of American immigrants to Texas was part of a plot by the United States to take over the region. In 1834, Santa Anna went through a process of dissolving state legislatures, disarming state militias, and abolishing the Constitution of 1824. These actions outraged much of Mexico.

War began in Texas on October 2, 1835, with the Battle of Gonzales. Early Texian successes at La Bahia and San Antonio were soon met with crushing defeat at the same locations a few months later. The war ended at the Battle of San Jacinto where General Sam Houston led the Texian Army to victory over a portion of the Mexican Army under Santa Anna, who was captured shortly after the battle. The conclusion of the war resulted in the creation of the Republic of Texas in 1836, until it later joined the United States as the 28th state. 

The border between the United States and Mexico represents the greatest division between the standards of living in neighboring countries. Yet, what was once a relationship easily dominated by the United States has developed into a bilateral relationship of increasing importance to both countries. 

Around the times of the World Wars, relations between Mexico and the US were very good. The good relations lasted until the late 1960s, but then Mexico began to re-create its nationalist image. In 1971 Richard M. Nixon imposed a 10 percent tax on all imports, hurting Mexico, which sold almost 70 percent of its exports to the United States. These acts caused President Alvarez Echeverría to doubt that there was anything beneficially special about Mexico's relationship with the United States. Echeverría tried to orient Mexico away from the United States both economically and politically, but despite significant drops during the mid-seventies, Mexico was again sending 70 percent of its exports to the United States within a few years. 

In 1979, Mexico broke relations with Nicaragua's Somoza regime, sending a clear message of solidarity with the rebels against the U.S.-backed government. Mexico's expressed support of nationalist movements in Central America and the Caribbean led to increased tensions between the two countries in the 1980s. But the end of the decade saw an increased mutual effort to establish a constructive relationship in the areas of trade agreements, migration, the drug war, and peaceful foreign policies, although currently, immigration and the drug war still appear to be problems.

If you were to look up the word “cliché” in the dictionary, my life would be the best description. That’s right; I am a walking, talking, teenage drama: A complete mess: A beautiful disaster, if you will.

Yeah, I’m not afraid to admit that I love myself, sometimes a bit too much. I did, anyway. But just like every other human being worldwide, I made a mistake: A huge one. A mistake that not only lost me my status as “Queen Bee,” but that landed me with a tiny heartbeat inside: A heartbeat that wasn’t my own. It had me eating for two, taking constant trips to the doctor, and even more trips to the bathroom to spill my guts as I awoke each morning. It was the causing of the small thuds I often felt in my belly, the reason I stopped partying so hard. Because of this mistake, I was stuck with a baby.

My mother was furious when she found out and refused to listen to a word I said. Instead, she decided to tell me what a slut I was, how I was a disgrace to the family. She told me that I could stay at home, but only if I gave up the baby. Her reasoning? The child wouldn’t turn out right being raised by only me, no father around. And how could I argue? My father packed his bags the minute he found out mom was pregnant, and look how I turned out: An accident waiting to happen – I guess it just did. The minute my mother said it, I knew; no matter how unwanted this baby was, I didn’t want it to turn out like me. I wouldn’t agree on an abortion, it was never an option, and that’s what has landed me where I am now: Standing outside of a girls’ home, a tiny warm bundle in my arms.

I run my shaking hand down the side of her round face. In the three days that I’ve had her, I’ve fallen head over heels for the slick reddish-brown hair on her head: Those wide, doe-like, forest green eyes: Her small, perfect, pink lips. Even the way she opens her mouth, frantically searching for a nipple whenever something brushes her cheek: Her rooting reflex. That much I remember from Psychology.

I hold her up and kiss her on her perfect button nose. She coughs lightly in her sleep and stretches her tiny fingers. I can’t help but smile as I hold her closer and feel the tears coming on.

“Please don’t hate me,” I whisper, wrapping her green fleece blanket around her, the one that used to be mine. It’s chilly out for the sixth of June, but that’s Houston weather for you. I set her down in front of the door and place an envelope, her name on it, on the steady rise and fall of her chest. Then I ring the doorbell. The button glows orange under my finger and I hear the chiming, faintly, through the door. I turn and disappear into the shadows just as the door opens.

A woman leans out; she doesn’t appear to be very old at all. She looks down and her gasp is audible from where I stand. She glances to her left, and then her right as she picks up my daughter. I notice her pressing her lips together when her eyes dart across the envelope. She looks around once more before slipping inside, the door closing with a fate-sealing click.

I turn and walk back to my mom’s car. She is waiting there for me. I get in and buckle my seat belt before it is too late: Before my heart can convince my mind to go back. I can hear my three year old sister breathing deeply, asleep in the backseat. Her dad isn’t around either. I find myself praying that she does not end up like me. I lean my head back and sigh loudly. My eyes are drifting shut when my mother touches my leg. It is gentle: More gentle than I ever thought possible from her. I look at her. Maybe she has changed her mind.

“You’re doing the right thing,” She whispers; we both know it is a lie. I turn away from her and stare out into the night as I wipe my eyes.

As we drive away, I wonder who will wipe her tears: Who will brush her hair and remind her to finish her vegetables. I wonder who she will grow up to be. I wonder if, someday, she will look down at her name, scrawled on that envelope, and wonder who I’ve grown up to be.

Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult

As an avid reader of Jodi Picoult, I cannot say that I am surprised at how much I enjoyed my latest read, Plain Truth. For each of her novels that I have read (which is fourteen, if you must know), I am usually genuinely pleased and moved by the ending, and Picoult did not disappoint this time around. After finishing the book on Friday afternoon, I immediately picked up another of her books that I have not read, and I immediately felt that pang I always feel when I know I will truly miss the story, and the characters. I’m sure this story will stay with me for some time.

Plain Truth tells the story of Katie Fisher, an eighteen year old girl, who secretly births a child out of wedlock. The child disappears only to be found later on, dead. Katie is accused of the murder, and Ellie Hathaway, an attorney from Philadelphia, takes on her case. What makes the book all the more interesting is that Katie isn’t like other girls in society, who find their peers to be pregnant all the time. Katie is Amish, so not only does she think differently, but convicting someone who is Amish is extremely different than convicting someone of the English world, as their faith must be taken into consideration. The Amish, after all, are not known to be violent. They are raised to always put themselves after everyone else.

Picoult does a brilliant job of painting a picture, even for those who are unfamiliar, of the Amish life. The characters are not only believable, but as a reader, I fell in love with them. They became a part of my life over the past two weeks. Page by page, you get to know them; you learn their stories, and are allowed room to speculate before Picoult finally reveals the truth. It is the realistic characters, three-dimensional storyline, and the honesty seen in the storytelling that has pushed this book to the top of my favorite’s list. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a good read: Anyone who is willing to explore the depths of intimacy, death, love and the life’s of those different than us.

After Hours

This is actually something I wrote a while back. It's the first piece I used for work shopping in this class, but I kind of wanted a bit more feedback on it, so I figured this would be the perfect place for that:



I’ve figured out his work schedule. I go in each time. As soon as I open the door, the smell of coffee and baked goods fills my nose. It makes my mouth water. I walk the seven steps to the counter, sometimes a few more, sometimes a few less, depending on the length of the line. It is usually seven. I always count. I can usually plan on the line being long in the mornings, made up of men and women in business suits, their Bluetooth earpieces flashing occasionally as they talk. Sometimes, there is a teacher. I know by their badges. They seem friendly enough. A few sigh and stare upward, running through their lesson plans in their head. Some offer smiles and comment on the pain of having to move about so early in the morning. And of course, there are also the few people who don’t say a word. They cross their arms and keep to themselves, obviously in a world of their own. The people I observe in the mornings fascinate me, but early evening is when I enjoy being here the most.

In the evening, the entire place is near silent, aside from the occasional chatter, laugh and whir of the machines. There are always students, both high school and college, scattered around at different tables, earphones plugged into their head, either scanning over a textbook or clicking away at their laptop. Every Tuesday and Thursday, there is a cross country team from a nearby school, sitting around a few pushed-together tables and talking quietly, tired smiles plastered on their faces.

It is evening now. The bell above the door rings lightly as I open it and step into the warmth of the building. My mouth waters as I inhale the scent of warm drinks and fresh cookies. I know it won’t last long, though, as I see that there is no one else in line. I take the first of about ten steps – Ten because there is no line. Ten because I don’t have to stop until I am standing in front of him.

Ten steps. Ten long strides that seem to take far too long. As soon as my hands are on the smooth, wooden counter, I feel relieved: Relieved because it means that I haven’t convinced myself that this is completely insane. I refuse to be convinced.

“Hey there,” He smiles, “Don’t tell me your name. I know it. I know I do…” Just a few sentences and I already feel as if absolutely nothing could go wrong. It isn’t him, necessarily; it’s his voice. It makes my mouth dry. Something about the way you can hear each roll of the tongue, each time he presses it against the roof of his mouth, every time he parts his lips. It’s the calm, deep tone he uses.

I find myself grinning as he tries to guess my name and he pauses as his eyes dart over my lips, “You have a really pretty smile.”

I don’t think my mouth could get any drier. He asks if I want my usual and I nod, asking for a bottle of water, also. He smiles as he hands me the water, as if he knows something. I pay and find a table to sit at while I wait for my drink. Sipping on my water, I watch him prepare it. I watch his large hands grabbing at the things he needs, and how delicately he handles a pen as he writes on the side of my cup. I watch his lips move as he sings along to the song being played. His intent expression turn into a large grin, his eyes squinting up, as one of his coworkers laughs at his singing. I watch as he turns toward me, and then I look away as he catches me staring. I hear him chuckle, and then he calls my name. My real name. My correct name. I look up and he holds my cup out toward me.

I stand and approach the counter. He gives me the cup and the hot chocolate warms my hands. Or was it his fingertips brushing mine?

“I remembered your name.” He smiles, proud of himself. I laugh lightly and nod, taking a sip. He watches me, and his eyes observe my face, focusing on my neck as I swallow. He inhales shakily and I feel my cheeks beginning to heat up. Why am I blushing? He looks away awkwardly. I hesitate as I begin to walk away, and I can see him watching me. I see his hand tapping his thigh. I see him biting his lip.

I say goodbye quietly and he nods, lifting his hand to wave.

“See you tomorrow morning, right?” He smiles. I nod and turn to leave. I wonder if he will stop me: If he will call my name, or come from behind his counter to grab my arm. I wonder if I will get out to the sidewalk and he’ll come running out behind me. As I open the door, he doesn’t even look. I can see him, not moving from that spot, biting his lip and tapping his leg.

I step into the cold, tucking my bottle of water into my purse and taking another sip of hot chocolate. It burns my throat. I think about that moment inside, his eyes on my throat. I’d never considered that a personal area of my body until that moment. I can’t help but think about what would happen if he were here when I swallowed that last mouthful. When I grimaced and my eyes watered, would he notice? Would he tilt my head back, lean down and kiss the pain away?

I shake those thoughts from my head.

I walk down the sidewalk, the heel of my boots crunching against the fresh layer of snow. It continues to fall. I imagine my hair is dotted with the white flecks. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignore it. I’m not in a talking mood. And then I hear my name.

I turn and smile, but I can already feel my stomach knotting up. It is harder to force it today than it usually is. He approaches me swiftly and wraps me in his arms far too tightly. I don’t hug back. He pulls away, kissing me, and then asks how my day was. He doesn’t care. His cell phone rings and he has it pressed to his ear before I can even begin to respond. Good. I’m still not in a talking mood. I sigh to myself as he swings his arm around me, pulling me along with him as he talks on the phone. Not even five paces later he stops, obviously upset with whomever he is speaking to on the phone. He takes a few steps away from me to continue his conversation. And then I hear a bell: The one above the door. I take this opportunity to turn around.

I see him, just standing there, wringing his green apron in his hands. He stares at me, and I can see the sadness in his eyes. The disappointment. I wonder if he can see it in mine. He continues to stare, just a while longer, and then he waves. I nod, lifting my hand slightly, and he turns away.

I try not to get too upset as I am pulled to his chest again. I try not to cry as I am hauled away from the mysterious, calm-natured barista. It isn’t too difficult to control my emotions, only because I know I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll be back for more hazelnut hot chocolate, another bottle of water, and maybe even a cookie. I’ll be back for another dose of our odd, unnamed, no longer one-sided relationship.

The Cal-Zone (Co-Written with Rhymenocerous)

This is a rap written by Rhymenocerous and myself last year during my Pre-Calculus class. Thus the name. (Pre Cal -- Cal Zone... get it?)

I like the pepperoni. I like the sausage.
Pasta and breadsticks -- Hold 'em hostage.
Call 'em up. Drop it off. Here in a flash.
Gimme my box and I'll give you my cash.

I close the door and I open the box.
Steam comin' off; you know I like 'em hot.
I pick it up and I hold it to my lips.
I take a bite, and the grease it drips
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop every single thing that I got.
Focus on the pizza or I'll get shot.
(Pei Weiiii!)
*Gunshot*

I like pizza; it's so delicious.
With pizza, you don't gotta wash the dishes.
Pizza Hut, gimme my pizza please.
Gimme stuffed crust with extra cheese.
(Mozzarella please!)

Short Story inspired by The Swim Team by Miranda July

This is my short story inspired by the writing style of Miranda July (mainly her story The Swim Team).

I am telling you this story because I’ve got no other to tell. Whether this is really a story or not is up for debate, as nothing really happens. Nothing ever happens in Creative Writing. The class enters, takes their seats and begins talking, laughing, not really paying attention until you find your way to the front of the room and give us that, Listen-because-I-don’t-want-to-have-to-destroy-the-children stare. Of course, there’s still the few who keep on with their laughing, their whispers and gossip, as if they’re not sitting right there, plain as day, in the front of the classroom. You make jokes, yell at the rebellious few, and give that same intimidating stare, all the while knowing you’ve got better things to do. Grading, for example, or explaining to someone the stitch used to knit the sweater they just complimented. And then you give us an assignment, or read us a book, or maybe even put in a movie that is meant to get our brains working enough to write. Of course, my friends and I, if not the whole class, remember what you said on that first day.

I remember your exact words. I’d just come from the counselor’s office, about halfway into fourth period, with a pass and a message, explaining I’d just been switched from Architecture CAD to your class: Creative Writing. Many of my teachers questioned my decision to switch, but I assured them that I’d much rather take a class in something I enjoy doing, than something I’m not so sure I’m interested in. I want to develop my writing more, I explained. I want feedback from others who enjoy it as much as I do. Of course, that isn’t really what I got.

So I walked into your class that day, pass in hand, and told you that I had been added to your roster. You waved me over to your desk, explaining the rules: This is a laidback class, you said. If you absolutely hate my prompts, feel free to blow them off. All I ask is that you write. You’ll need to have something ready to workshop in two weeks.

But back to the point of this story. Everyday the prompts that were given were forgotten and I’d sit in the corner with a friend and talk. Occasionally, something said would spark a story idea, or maybe even the opening lyrics to our latest rap. But, the truth of the matter is, we never left class with something worth reading (unless of course anyone wants to read a Christmas rap. And who doesn’t want to read a Christmas rap?)

And then, last class, you brought us to the library, where we set up our blogs. Now you’ll actually be checking our work, so we’ll be pressured not only to write, but to put out stories that don’t make us feel like idiots when read by our Creative Writing teacher, not to mention our fellow classmates (and we all know how mean teenagers can be). So, I guess I'll be getting what I asked for in the first place: Willing readers, hopefully thoughtful feedback and an opportunity to read the work of others. For someone getting what they want, I'm awfully nervous.