Gueros

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Look here, baby.

Come, here, come!

Please, stop it already!

Give me a break!

Just stay there, please!

Stay, already!

What picture is Mommy?

What picture is Mommy?

You hit the baby, a**hole!

I didn't know she had a baby, a**hole.

Beta!

Mrs. Esperanza, open the door!

Mrs. Esperanza, open the door!

Don't be rude!

Calm down.

Tomas, Tomas!

Are you still listening to this?

You're going to go slay

with your brother in the city for a while.

I can't handle you anymore.

I just can't.

SOUTH:

Fede.

Fede.

Fede.

So, what was the other myth?

The one about The Wonder Years.

That Marilyn Manson was the guy.

Or the one about the kid in Africa

next to a vulture about to eat her,

and that the photographer committed

suicide, supposedly over that.

Morning, lazy bones.

Damn it, Tomy.

When did you get in?

I waited at the station for hours

and you didn't pick me up.

You blew it, Tomy. I said, "Maybe."

I waited at the station for hours.

I said, "Maybe."

- I thought you were at the march.

- What march?

You blew it.

- I'm going to take the cab fare, man.

- What march?

Did you bring the money?

No, that's gross, Tomas.

That's what wallets are for.

Don't you have a wallet?

How long are you staying?

Mom says to take good care of it.

She's not sending more

until next month.

This is Santos.

Why aren't you dark-skinned

like Sombra?

- Who is Sombra?

- You can't call me that.

- Why not, man?

- Because I'll break your legs.

How is Mom?

Fine, as usual. Mad.

What about the woman's baby?

It was fine.

"THE DEMANDS ARE NOT NEGOTIABLE"

SAY THE JAILED STUDENTS

Don't you have anything for breakfast?

- What's this?

- It's the gore wall.

Why don't we have a proper breakfast?

Continental breakfast, my treat.

But what the f*** are they talking about

with continental breakfast?

What continent are they talking about?

It':
like saying,

"The kind of breakfast they eat over there."

Who are they over there?

And who are we here?

- Can I put something on?

- No.

That was Flaco de Oro

for the classic lovers

on contraband FM shortwave

and long resistance pirate radio.

Dedicated to the friend

who loaned I! to me.

Sombrilla, wherever you are,

finders keepers.

Who's that?

Ana.

A snob from Tropical Literature

who took over the radio station.

You're the one just sitting around.

Monday, Monday, Monday,

lazy Monday, striking Monday,

and still it moves.

Because the suits' plans never rest.

This Thursday at 4:00 p.m.

is the general assembly

in the main auditorium

to vote on the proposal

to take over the TV stations.

It's up to you if we keep fighting

or go back to class.

How about this little classic

from the Cadillacs

for the resistance?

What did you want to put on?

You still listen to this?

The cassette player is broken.

What is it?

Something my dad found.

Let me see.

Epigmenio Cruz.

Cool.

Once, he made Bob Dylan cry.

That's what Dad used to say.

This dude could have saved Mexican rock.

Hi, Sombra.

- How are you, sweetie?

- Here I am at the window.

Is your mom there?

Has she left?

Yeah, Mom has gone.

Aurora, this is Tomas.

He is my brother.

Hello, Tomas.

You're not dark-skinned.

Hey, Aurora, I want to show Tomas

that orange cord.

Mom said, "NM,

Remember, the orange cord

is like the bond of friendship

between Santos, you and me.

Mom said, "NM,

Come on, sweetie,

and I'll tell you another story.

Okay.

- Ready?

- Yes.

And when he awoke...

the dinosaur was still there.

- Did you like it?

- No.

Come on, pass me the orange cord.

Look.

That's my school,

and (ha! is the movement's flag.

- Can we visit your department?

- No. It's occupied.

Everything is occupied.

No one can get in because it's occupied.

Don't you ever go to the marches?

Or to extracurricular classes?

- Are you scabs?

- Don't even say (ha! word as a joke.

What then?

We are on strike from the strike.

Thanks, sweetie.

I'll tell you another story later.

Pass me the cord.

Do they really live there?

Can'! you see?

The people from the student movement.

This morning

I was going over my notebooks,

and I found this poem

I wrote firs! semester.

It reminded me of what we were saying

on the show yesterday

about being far from home,

if we even ever had one.

Friends, you are not the only ones

with a bottomless pit in your belly.

Here goes. Ready?

"Extension of home."

We stare at the ruins

as if we recognized

traces of home in them,

as if each stone could tell us

of the spaces we grew up in.

So many collapsed fragments.

But this pile of stones,

one on top of the other,

this pile of stones is home,

and no one will demolish it now.

"Let home be everywhere," one of us said.

And we gather to take it in our hands,

to hold it out to our dearest places,

to throw it forcefully into the water,

into the highest branches of the trees

and the intimacy of the wells.

So the stones of the home

may mingle with the rest of the stones.

So, at night,

we can lie on the warm ground

and be sheltered without walls or roof.

You're here on contraband FM,

and still it moves.

Aurora's parents are home.

Now what?

Time for bed.

It's 8:
00.

Let's go somewhere.

Why go out

if we're coming back again soon?

Aurora...

are you asleep?

Is the tiger (here?

Yes, he's here.

Right next to me.

Do you want him to go away?

Tell him to go away.

Go away, Mr. Tiger. Go away.

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