The Saga of Gina Tenorio

I was born on a cool March afternoon in Los Angeles, a day my mother insists it was Good Friday during Easter week.

I've been the unwitting Catholic ever since and have been forced, along with my three siblings, to drop my pants and grab my ankles by life's little surprises.

I was born to Central American parents. My father was from Costa Rica and my

mother was from El Salvador, which apparently makes me WHITE.

My father is very Anglo looking. The only indication people have that he isn't white is his Spanish accent and the fact that no one in this country can understand a word he says.

But he was always trying to make us feel proud of our heritage. I remember he once told me, "Is chu prod to be chu? Ches or no?"

My mother, on the other hand, was a little easier for the endless barrage of

neighbors (the ones we met before each eviction) to understand.

She is a tough little lady with black hair who could kick the ass of your

average WWF wrestler. She had to raise four of us in between her working. My

mother has always worked full-time. When I was 10, she worked in a factory

As the oldest girl I tried to pitch in, but to be honest, I hated welding for 12 hours straight.

As I mentioned before, I was white because all my friends thought I was white.

For some reason, I was missing the nice Mexican brown hue that ALL of the

If my family were any whiter we'd be clear. It truly could not have sucked

worse. No one ever believed I was Latino either. Telling them this was like

"You're what? Latino? No! You are not. You're just a little slow."

The Mexican and American families were out enjoying their clearly defined

cuisine, I was watching my mother toss pupusas, cause that's how you make `em, tossing them like Frisbies. These things are flat, homemade tortillas filled with whatever the hell my mother could find in the kitchen, rice ... beans ... marijuana, whatever.

No, not really, my mother was very vocal against drugs, especially after a

No one ever understood my culture, especially me. So I just decided to be

white. What the Hell, I was halfway to white anyway.

I spent the rest of my youth learning from Sesame Street how not to be ethnic.

I'd only use my Spanish as a party trick. I spoke it fluently then. These

days, the only phrase I remember well is "Is chu prod to be chu? Ches or no?"

When I finally got to high school, I decided that I hated people and didn't

want to be around them. But my mother said it was the law and I had to go to

I never forgot those words either. It was at Buena Park High School that I

began to develop the comedian in me thanks in part to the curriculum of the

State of California. I participated in absolutely nothing, not even in

homework. My teachers told me I would amount to nothing. And they were right,

It wasn't my first choice at careers. Before graduating from high school I had

flirted with the idea of comedy. And I told my father about it. He told me to

"Cha dup," so I went to college instead. It was there that a counselor told me

my grades indicated I could be an accomplished cow spanker or President of the

Unfortunately, the presidency was out of the question because I was afraid people would Find out I was Latino, and Americans would be upset about giving up another job to yet another "foreigner." So I was faced with bovine fantasies until my counselor spoke up.

"I think you might be able to pull off journalism? Can you write?"

Can I write? Did Elvis have one last crap? Actually, I wasn't sure about an

answer to either question. But I gave it a shot and ended up working in the

newspaper biz. I was given the opportunity to relive my youth and report on

the poor pathetic huddled masses in California's Inland Valley. When something happened with rich white folk in the Inland Valley, the opportunity to cover it was

given to the Hispanic reporter. Oh well, I was at least making more than my

But I felt like something was missing in my life. My co-workers had long labeled me a wise-ass. After one particularly ripping comment, one co-worker even stopped

punching me long enough to suggest that I become a "God damn comedian."

I thought about it during our recuperation in the hospital. And decided

to do it. These days I give them the act all around Southern California, in