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I’m a Mexican-American father of three in Houston, Texas.  Mark French is my name-de-plume and my name de life as well.  Occupied territory, and all.  My mother is a Juarez, descended from Benito Juarez, and my grandfather was a citizen of the territory of New Mexico.  I’m a citizen of Texas, and a citizen of the world, no matter how small my world gets.  I’ve moved twice in my life with less than $100 in my pocket, once to Houston, and once to New York City.  I joined an Army National Guard long range reconaissance unit in Houston, and spent a good part of my adult life in the military in one form or another.  I love my mom, a nd used to blame my dad, but now I’m a dad, too.  Most of my stories are about my experiences in NYC trying to make it as another Mexican in the big city. 

I’ve worked on a Wall Street trading floor, and in the oil patch.  In my experience, most Americans know zippity-do-da about either industry or the people that work in them. Actually, most Americans (myself included) know a  little about everything and much about nothing.  And yet we stand behind our prejudices and opinions steadfastly, like oaks against the winds of change.   I hate bigotry in all its forms, and regret that we’ve gotten to the point that we’re demonizing each other about trivial differences and never get to know people from the other side.  One of the biggest impressions I had of post-Soviet Russia is that their culture was much like my own.  It seems almost painfully naive that I was angry that the government had lied to us.   I had similar revelations about hillbillys and rich kids when I was in the military – shave a head, put on fatigues and we’re all pretty much the same.  Guess you had to be there.   And so I write the same stuff I always write – so much is lost, so much is lost…

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