The Border Patrol truck snuck up behind us, flashing its red lights. We stopped on the dirt road, wondering why we were being pulled over. 

It was around 10 a.m. on August 14, 2024, and we were a few miles from the border wall. Our documentary film crew woke early to capture the sunrise at the border wall and spent the morning filming. For the past year, we have been taking trips to document the humanitarian work of Green Valley-Sahuarita and Tucson Samaritans on the Arizona border.  

Our SUV belonged to the Green Valley-Sahuarita Samaritans and was marked with the organization’s logo—a white cross on a red background. Pastor Randy Mayer, co-founder of the Green Valley-Sahuarita Samaritans—had been driving and escorting our three-person film crew, which consisted of myself–one of the film directors—bestselling author Reyna Grande, who is one of our executive producers, and another crew member, who wishes to remain unnamed. 

On our way back from the border wall, we passed a Border Patrol (BP) truck along Tres Bellotas Ranch Road. We waved to the officer from our easily identifiable SUV. He did not wave back. A customary, cordial, and unspoken practice between the humanitarian aid volunteers and the BP is to wave, stop, and report any sightings of stranded migrants at the end of the wall, then continue. Volunteers’ mission is to save lives, and the BP is there to apprehend migrants, although they save lives, too. 

Soon after the BP officer stopped us, a loud helicopter circled above us. The officer approached our SUV. “Are you all United States citizens?” he asked.

We all answered affirmatively. The officer asked Pastor Randy to exit the car and grab the keys. The pastor immediately told him that his passengers were documentarians. 

“Why are you stopping us?” I demanded.

“Vehicle inspection,” he said.

The officer ordered Pastor Randy, a white man, to open the back hatch of the SUV, and once he inspected our belongings, he slammed it shut. We could no longer hear them, and my apprehension grew.  

After more than a year of filming in the Sonoran Desert, our documentary was nearing the end of production. 

This past year has been one of the most historic times at the southern border. Thousands of migrants from all over the world were seeking asylum in the U.S. Our cameras captured the mass migration and interviewed asylum seekers from Sudan, Guinea, Morocco, India, Turkey, Russia, China, Mexico, Venezuela, and other countries throughout Central and South America. We filmed mainly on the Arizona side of the U.S.-Mexico border. 

The overwhelming majority of the volunteers at this stretch of the border, the Tucson sector, which is considered the deadliest land crossing in the world, are older White Americans. The Samaritans range in age between 60 and 85 years old. Working in crews, these “badass” older White volunteers, both men and women, pack up their four-wheel-drive SUVs with food, water, and supplies and make the one-and-a-half-hour drive through the middle of the Sonoran Desert. No heat, rain, hail, or snow keeps them from showing up and helping migrants in need.

At the end of the long day, each volunteer is responsible for restocking and refilling the gas tank, powering portable chargers to hand out to migrants with dead cell phones, and washing the dusty vehicles. Once home, they must write a report of the day’s life-saving efforts so that, by Monday, they can present their findings, challenges, and encounters with the BP to the volunteer corps during the in-person meeting.

When the BP agent finished interrogating Pastor Randy, he came for me. He ordered me to get out of the car. “Do you have an ID with you? I have to establish citizenship on everyone here, okay?” he said.

He then took me behind our vehicle, where Pastor Randy sat under the hot sun on the car’s bumper. The officer asked me if we had crossed the border illegally. He mentioned that surveillance cameras were everywhere, and they saw two migrants with two white bags cross the border and get into our vehicle. 

I explained that we had crossed the vehicle barriers at the end of the wall that morning–Reyna wanted to pick up trash litter in the area, and I wanted to film the sunrise from the other side of the wall–but we were still in the United States. In 1855, the U.S. government installed 276 obelisks to mark the U.S. boundary. The current border wall stands about twenty to thirty feet beyond the boundary on US soil. So, technically, we never left the United States.

A situation like ours would usually only take a few minutes to resolve by showing our US passport, but this BP officer had something else on his mind. He escorted me to the BP truck and ordered me to spread my legs and place my hands against the vehicle. He patted me down and touched my groin. Opening the door, he informed me that I was not under arrest, but he needed to call in a background check. He ordered me to enter the truck, which was caged and not ventilated, and then he shut the door, which automatically locked. 

In 2014, I served as executive producer of the documentary Food Chains.  The Samaritans invited me to screen the feature film at their annual conference called “Common Ground on the Border,” where I first heard of The Samaritans. I was intrigued. The unspoken truth is that this volunteer work has an element of danger. At the border wall, the vigilantes, militia, BP, the security for the wall construction crews, and the cartel carry pistols and machine guns. The volunteers are always unarmed, preferring to use their hands to carry gallons of water and food. These elders could be doing less dangerous volunteer assignments-like being a docent at the museum, reading to children at the local library, or helping give directions at an information booth at the local hospital or the airport. Why would these older White Americans, instead of enjoying their retirement doing leisurely–and safe–activities, be willing to devote their time, money, and energy to helping migrants at the wall and putting themselves in harm’s way?

I was determined to make a film about these courageous and compassionate people. The Samaritans inspired our entire production team and were up for the challenge of telling an alternative story of the border.  

However, as a Latino filmmaker, I quickly noticed Latino volunteers’ absence among The Samaritans. “Where are the Latinos?” I would ask. I got a range of responses from the Latinos I asked–They were too busy working and raising families, or that the work was too dangerous, and they were afraid of getting hurt. When I pointed out that the Samaritan volunteers were facing those dangers, the pushback I would get is that because they were white, they had nothing to worry about. “They are privileged. Nobody is going to do anything to them,” was the response from one of the Latinos I interviewed. 

I admit I was perplexed. Don’t we, as Latinos, have a responsibility to offer aid to our stranded Latino brothers and sisters in the desert? 

Though I knew I would get some criticism for making a film about White people, not recognizing the work white humanitarians do at the border wall would be a disservice to our allies. I thought they would serve as role models for other white Americans, and hopefully, this film might encourage them to get more involved in helping migrants in need and shift their fear or bias. The volunteer work is not motivated by a White savior mentality, as some may think. Though our film might be centering on their perspective, we hope to capture and convey that the work these white volunteers do is nothing less than an act of radical love for humanity.

Equally important is for Latinos to witness this as well. If we executed our film correctly, we could send a powerful message to Latinos about working side by side in offering life-saving aid with our allies to stand up to injustice and do something about the human rights violations happening at the border. I thought it could encourage them to overcome their fears and reservations about volunteering.

The inside of the caged area of the Border Patrol truck was suffocatingly hot. To put our situation in perspective, leaving a child alone in a locked hot car for just fifteen minutes can be deadly. It is incomprehensible that any person with half a brain would think it was okay to force a person or persons into a hot vehicle and lock the windows and doors in the dead of summer. It made me think of all the migrants, alone and afraid and not speaking English, who have gone through this situation.

Through the grates on the window, I watched the BP officer return to The Samaritans’ SUV and order our film’s executive producer, Reyna Grande, out of the vehicle. After asking her repeatedly if she was in the country legally–all while holding her US passport in his hands–the officer escorted her to the vehicle and put her in the back with me. Oddly, once in the truck, the officer ordered her to frisk herself while he watched. 

The migrants call the caged part of a BP vehicle “La Perrera” (The Kennel). Once both Reyna and I were in the kennel, under suspicion of crossing the border illegally or transporting migrants, it became apparent that in the eyes of the BP agent, the only crime Reyna and I had committed was being of Mexican descent.

The U.S. Customs and Border Protection, under which the BP operates, has a troubling history of racial profiling. Despite laws against it, a 2014 exception from the Obama Administration allows the BP to continue this practice within 100 miles of the border. This egregious practice has created a climate of fear and mistrust among Latino communities, with a Pew Research Center study finding that U.S. born Latinos are significantly more likely than other groups to fear deportation. According to the ACLU, “CBP’s militarization of the border region has produced rampant abuses ranging from racial profiling to excessive force,” with Latinos more likely to be stopped and searched at the border.   

It brings to mind the rarely told stories of the nearly two million deportations, inspired by the anti-immigrant rhetoric and a shaky economy, of our American ancestors of Mexican descent from the 1930s and 1940s. This historical trauma continues to haunt Latino communities today.

The BP’s actions towards us were a stark reminder of this systemic bias. The officer’s insistence on repeatedly questioning our citizenship, being suspicious of us, and detaining us while he verified that we hadn’t crossed the border illegally or were transporting migrants, even while holding our U.S. passports in his hands, was a clear violation of our rights.

Now I understand why Latinos do not sign up as humanitarian volunteers in this section of the border wall. Latinos’ fear of being harassed or deported by the BP is a real fear.  

“Okay, you can go now,” the officer said, opening the door to the vehicle and letting Reyna and me out of the hot truck. He returned our passports and escorted us to the Samaritan’s SUV. 

As the helicopter stopped circling and flew away, I wondered what would have happened if we had not agreed to a vehicle inspection, even under probable cause, even though we had the right to remain silent and not answer questions without a lawyer. In that case, the consequences might not have ended well for us people of color. 

As our production team continues to document the humanitarian work of The Samaritans, we are more determined than ever to shed light on the human rights violations happening at the border and the toll of unjust policies. 

January 3, 2025, is the next session of the new Congress before the newly-elected President takes office on January 21st. No doubt, there will be rumblings of what to do about the border. Latino leaders and members of the Congressional Hispanic Congress must demand humane practices within the CBP and include them in a new immigration reform bill. We must also require that our newly-elected President undo the exemption that exists today that allows racial profiling by the BP and the U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP). It’s time to deal with the border like mature adults and make the necessary changes to an antiquated immigration system that refuses to acknowledge the contributions that Latinos have made and continue to make to the United States. 

Our stories and history are valuable; we must continue advocating and fighting to tell them.

The post Filming While Brown: Racial Profiling of Latino Filmmakers at the Southern Border first appeared on .

As the daughter of a Mexican immigrant growing up in Minnesota on subsidized school lunches, I didn’t come from connections, clout or cash. Despite obstacles and naysayers, I have accomplished a lot with hard work and unrelenting determination.

I became a national radio host at the age of 15, went on to launch The Talk at CBS and became network television’s youngest head of daytime ever, leading my team to a record 116 Emmy wins during my tenure. I’ve also received seven Imagen Awards for creative achievements as a Latina in the entertainment industry.

When I heard about a new musical called In the Heights, created by Puerto Rican Lin-Manuel Miranda and featuring a cast of predominantly Latinx characters, I had to see it. I’ve since had the privilege of experiencing the show multiple times on Broadway, with touring companies in Los Angeles and Minneapolis and, before the pandemic hit, I took my 5-year-old daughter to see a college production, just so she too could witness the powerful interpretation of Latinx pride.

I grew up yearning to see success stories of people who looked like me, both in real-life and on the screen. Years later, when I was in a position to impact change as a TV executive, I challenged others to make room for BIPOC and Latinx characters because I know what it’s like to want to see your community and your stories represented on screen.

Which brings us to the film which I, like so many others, have been anxiously awaiting. I popped some popcorn, got comfortable on the couch and cued it up on HBO Max. I expected I might tear up, it happens every time I watch the musical or listen to the soundtrack. (“Hello, breathe” is my anthem!) I didn’t expect to become so overwhelmed by the awesomeness of this big screen Latinx explosion, that I’d have to break up my viewing over two nights. 

A piece of art has never made me feel so seen, valued and heard in the way the two hours and 23 minutes of In the Heights touched my soul.  Experiencing that many BIPOC characters on screen, in some scenes more than 100 at a time, can best be described as stunning and awe-inspiring. The stories are emotional and honest. Rooted in universal themes like the fight against displacement, trying to achieve your dreams against impossible odds and the importance of home. It’s also a beautiful tribute to the sacrifices parents make for their children to have a better life.  

There’s an overlooked moment in the film that resonated with me and I believe has much bigger implications. My career hasn’t been all Hollywood red carpet moments. I’ve had to navigate lack of representation, conscious and unconscious bias in the workplace. I once had a boss frantically call me into her office to vent about her nanny who had just quit without giving notice.  As she went on about what an inconvenience it was, she revealed her nanny was Mexican saying Mexicans make the best nannies because they love your kids like they were their own. She then asked if my mom or any of my aunts were available to start working as her nanny.  

The dynamics of this interaction were just like the story Nina Rosario recounts to her dad about being put on the spot at a diversity dinner at Stanford.

It’s a wedge used to turn our community against each other.  

Nina says she feels put on the spot, that she has to choose: Is she with us (the wait staff) or is she with them (the fancy Stanford people)? Her dad Kevin (Jimmy Smits) responds, “There’s no shame in waiting tables, and there’s no shame in taking a different path…”

As someone who has taken a different path, there’s a perception that I’m not on the side of “us” that I’m on the side of “them.”  But agreeing that these are the two sides means buying into the false dilemma presented by those who want to see us waste our time and energy fighting amongst each other. The true “us” is people who spend their lives and their work trying to lift the human spirit. Whether it’s asserting our dignity in little ways, diligently striving for broad systemic change (like Nina), or persisting with unflinching tenacity to bring the world a movie that is both an amazing piece of filmmaking and a revelation in representation and non-stereotypical storylines. 

For that, I would like to say thank you to Lin-Manuel Miranda, the film’s screenplay writer Quiara Alegría Hudes, director Jon M. Chu and everyone involved in this project, from greenlight to release, for showing people and children of color that we’re not invisible and to keep dreaming.  The vibrant celebration of resilience had me singing (loudly) and dancing (badly, but enthusiastically) from beginning to end. The heartfelt representation of Latinx people (minus the typically portrayed violence, sex, pregnancy scares and drugs) is the rallying cry to stop minimizing ourselves or apologizing for the space we take up. The cue to proudly lift our cultural banderas (flags) like Miranda did as he rapped his acceptance speech after winning a Tony for Best Original Score while waving a Puerto Rican flag. 

As the mother of two young daughters, I was especially moved by the created tribute to strong historical Latinx women like Chita Rivera, Rita Moreno, Frida Kahlo, Celia Cruz, Dolores Huerta, Isabel Allende, Sandra Cisneros, Julia de Burgos, Rigoberta Menchù, the Mirabal Sisters and Sonia Sotomayor and the blink-and-you-miss-it final shot of the film, which felt like a special tribute to all women and girls.  And whatever path my daughters take my greatest hope is that they take joy in working, creating, lifting us up.

Alabanza.

About the writer: Angelica Rosas McDaniel is an Emmy Award-winning entertainment executive, mentorship advocate and public speaker with a 27-year career in the entertainment industry. She is the executive vice president of strategy and development for Litton Entertainment, a division of Hearst Television. She previously worked at Warner Bros.’s Telepictures and CBS.

The post ‘In The Heights’ and The Meaning of “US” first appeared on .

The Directors Guild of America is both a craft union and a Guild that protects the creative and economic rights of film, TV, commercial, and new media directors and their teams. It is the most powerful and richest union in the United States. Its membership is 71% white males. As a Mexican-American director member, I’d like to talk about my complex relationship with one of most prestigious organizations in Hollywood.

I was a sensitive 7-year-old boy who was deeply affected by the movies I saw.  My home was broken. My mom and dad split up when I was a young kid, but I have vivid memories of them together.  I clearly also recall their divorce and many influences that shaped my life after that. The movies played a big role in molding me.  I got lost in the films. Cinema was in my soul. I fantasized of becoming an actor and film director someday.  

My family lived in Boyle Heights.  My dad was a contractor and my mom was a teacher’s aide at LAUSD.  My dad made decent money.  We went places.   Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm, Magic Mountain were common visits for us. We spent a lot of time all over LA, from Malibu to East LA, visiting the very best of our favorite restaurants — The Velvet Turtle, Barragan’s, The Pantry, Philippe’s and Little Joes in Chinatown. Surf and turf were my fancy; it still is today. My parents taught me confidence. I belonged anywhere I chose to belong. I could become anything if I worked hard enough.  This is how I grew up.  “Positivity,” “equality,”“confidence” were the words that guided me — they still do today. 

I got hooked on drama class in the eighth grade.  By ninth grade I was pursuing my acting career. At 19 I was in a play, Caught in the Middle With No Way Out, at the Harold Clurman Theatre off Broadway in New York.  By 21, I was a star in Angeltown alongside actress Theresa Saldana.  By 27, I wrote, produced, directed and starred in my first film, My Father’s Love.  I believed in myself. Opportunities were as much mine as they were anyone’s. I didn’t know anything different. 

However, for the first time in my life I have come to question my belief in inherent equal opportunities.  After I became a member of the Directors Guild of America, I began to question whether this is a room I belonged in, whether or not I truly stood side by side with fellow members.

The Directors Guild of America, or the DGA as it is commonly known, is a guild for the biggest and most talented directors in the world — film and TV’s very best. In my opinion, you don’t win an Oscar without first winning a DGA award.  In 2013 my dream came true; I became a member after years of hard work paying my dues.  After having had one of my films, Down for Life, accepted into Sundance and world premiered at Toronto in 2009; after winning the Golden Eagle award in 2001 from Nosotros for “Outstanding Independent Filmmaker” for feature My Fathers Love; after multiple film festival wins; after being hired to direct 2nd unit on a feature film (which was signatory to the DGA), I was finally eligible.   

I didn’t hesitate to submit my request for consideration to join.  It wasn’t easy.  In addition to my work, I needed three endorsements from other directors who were current union members. That took time.  But I eventually got it done. I’m still extremely grateful to those who finally signed my endorsement. Thank you to the lone three who supported me.

One of the most momentous days of my life was the day I received my package in the mail from the DGA.  I was accepted!  Now I just had to raise the money to join.  I could make payments. Great.  That was awesome. It was happening! I was now a member of a group composed of the creative greats that I had admired all my life.  Like all the great directors, I would now have a spotlight to show my work.  I was surely going to meet studio heads and showrunners. I was going to meet executives. I was surely going to work on big studio lots as a director, not a PA, not a grip, not a tour guide. 

I wholeheartedly believed I arrived until the reality of being a Latino in the Directors Guild of America set in. I enthusiastically attended all the meetings I could.  First perk, they feed you at every meeting.  Second perk, I was invited to watch the latest movies.  I was beyond excited to meet and see the work of my fellow directors.  On occasion, some of the screenings were followed by a Q and A with the director.  This was the biggest thrill — Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Robert Zemeckis, Bradley Cooper! I could listen and learn from the best. 

However, something was missing. I didn’t hear or see many movies from anyone who looked like me or had a diverse cultural perspective.  I quickly noticed the token diversity when I walked in the rooms and attended events. It is, for the most part, white males, perhaps a couple of Blacks, one or two Asians; I rarely noted anyone who looked like me — Latino. 

My ego got the best of me. I was a rare sight at the DGA because I was different.  I initially rationalized it by telling myself, perhaps I worked harder than other Latinos.  I broke barriers and got myself into the rooms that many Latinos hadn’t yet.  So I was going to make myself known.  I would also crack the door open for other Latinos who need a little support.  Being the proud confident kid from Boyle Heights, was resilient and determined. I was ambitious, full of hope.

I emailed my hero directors. I asked to shadow. I asked to be mentored. I was ignored.  Emails went unanswered. I requested guidance from the DGA executives, board members, western director council members.  How do I join these studio programs for directors that are in collaboration with the DGA?  A white woman, one of the people composing the diversity task force suggested, “Go be a production assistant at Warner Brothers. Go make a short film.”  What? Really? 

I didn’t understand that because I had years of hard work, and had accomplished so much already. I’m a DGA member.  I am an award winner. I’ve made full-length feature films. Did she really believe I should devote more time being a production assistant? 

DGA life was becoming quite clear.  The DGA executives weren’t concerned with how I got there.  Who the hell was I anyway?   I had no ties to greatness.  I had no uncle who was a studio director. I had no well-known industry friends. Therefore, all I was offered was talk, talk, talk.  I was offered, I’m sorry to say, BS programs that I see as more effective to filter out my color.  If I didn’t work within a couple of years in a studio or TV show, I could not even advance within the guild to run for Co-Chair of the Latino Committee.  I wasn’t eligible. This was the real DGA.  No one cares about our stories, not the brown ones, not the Black ones, not the Asian ones, not even women get a fair shake. Statistics continue to show very little has changed.

I approached my first shadow assignment enthusiastically and optimistically.  A “shadow” is where you follow around a TV director on an episodic TV show to learn from them, hopefully make an impression with the showrunner, and hopefully land a directing job down the road. 

This was my honest impression: Day 1 on a DGA sanctioned show, the executive producer was DGA, but I prefer not to identify the show.   As I slowly walked up closer to the monitor to see how the director was setting up the shot, I overheard a white gaffer quietly speaking to the first AD, “Every week we have another Mexican.”  It was not meant for me to hear.   I felt awkward to say the least. 

I began to notice uneasy glances and strained smiles.  What was I doing there? The craft service people and security guards were the ones I sat with to eat. They were Latino and they were very welcoming towards me. Was this the level I had achieved?  Was I really seeing prejudice because I looked different from those around me?

The motion picture studios send their VPs and executives to speak at the DGA membership. These are the so-called diversity events. The panelists don’t know us. Aside from valet parking attendants and the cooks in the kitchen, many in the film industry from the west side of town, including executives at the DGA, seem to have a limited understanding of Latinos.  I was literally handed the keys to a car at the DGA parking garage.  The gentleman was embarrassed when he realized I was a member and not his valet. This lack of understanding is reflected in the way I’ve been treated.  

What I want from the DGA is an honest discussion.  

Past Presidents have all told me things are going to get better. Well they haven’t. I’m not calling anyone out. These men are friendly, caring and supportive leaders. But that’s not enough.  I believe there is, like in many organizations in our country, institutional and systemic racism in the DGA.  All we have to do is look at the statistics.  Many top DGA members have gone on to become producing directors, showrunners, and executive producers on film and TV shows that have horrible track records when it comes to hiring people of color.  Statistics don’t lie.  

But there is an obvious and urgent need to speak out, so I’m taking a chance. I have questions for the DGA. How many Latino directors have been hired from participating in their diversity initiatives? There are almost 60 million Hispanics in the United States. Does the Hollywood DGA elite recognize that working Latino directors are less than 3% in mainstream movies and television?  Perhaps I’ll be further alienated just for asking these questions. 

Is the DGA willing to set effective programs that will give diverse members a fair shot? Does the DGA sincerely want to offer equal opportunities to people of color?  What true success has come from the diversity committees set up by the DGA? If these committees were effective at what they were formed to accomplish, at some point wouldn’t there be no need for these committees?  

The protests across the United States are an indication that American people value diversity. This movement is also supported around the world as we watch the Black Lives Matter movement resonate around the world.  

The movie industry touches hearts and minds globally.  The DGA can choose to welcome and celebrate the various colors, cultures, and genders which are more reflective of our country.  We could use the collective bargaining agreement we sign every couple of years with major motion picture studios to bring real change and opportunity to all people of color.  

DGA members of color have worked hard to become members.  We earned our right at a fair chance.  

There has never been a better time to bring our the hard-uncomfortable truths to light.  My story is just one of dozens that should be heard.  My work so far hasn’t stemmed from any DGA programs, it’s been coming from relentless persistence and belief in myself.  Regardless of how difficult it has been, I have no doubt I belong in the room. I have hope. I still believe what my parents instilled in me — I can do anything and I belong anywhere.  

We are equal. It’s long overdue. It’s time for true real change! 

The post What I Want From The DGA Is An Honest Discussion first appeared on .

I recently saw and immensely enjoyed the movie, Crazy Rich Asians, yet find myself wondering, when will there be a “Crazy Rich Mexicans” movie? Sadly, most of the images we see of Mexicans on movie screens, are drug dealers and rapists (compliments of the President). In other words, all we ever get is, “Crazy Mexicans,” without the “Rich,” part. Then it occurred to me that I actually have a true, “Crazy Rich Mexican” story.

I realized it the other night when my wife and I were at dinner with several other couples and someone asked the usual question, “So how did you two meet?” Everybody went around the table. Most of the stories were standard stuff: met at work, met online, met at a bar; then it was our turn so I begged their patience and began…

“It was Cinco De Mayo and my roommate George and I were hosting an awards show at the Kennedy Center, in Washington D.C. At that time in my life, I was a standup comic and a serial bachelor. I had no interest in getting married, having kids, or even a semi-serious relationship for that matter. Anyway, George and I were looking for cute girls to meet at the after party. We spotted a small group of women walking towards us and I noticed one girl in particular. She wore a navy-blue blazer with silver buttons, had flowing auburn hair and perfect olive skin. It was weird: like lightening hit me. I looked at George and said, “Oh my God, that’s the woman I’m going to marry.” She whipped her hair and I swear to God the whole thing was in slo-mo. Her hair flew side-to-side like a shampoo commercial and settled on her shoulders.

I finally snapped out of my slo-mo dream only to see George making a move on her. I immediately inserted myself in between them, “Hi,” I said to her. “I was wondering if I could buy you breakfast, lunch, dinner, get married, have kids?” She smiled and with the most adorable Mexican accent inquired, “How many kids?” Without missing a beat, I answered, “As many as you want.” She responded, “You’re crazy.” I quickly countered, “No, actually I’m smitten.” Again, she smiled and said, “That sounds so sweet, but English is my second language and I don’t know what “smitten” means.”

By this point George and her friends were all eyes and ears waiting for my response. I gulped and replied, “I don’t think I could give you a dictionary definition of the word, but I can tell you how smitten feels. It feels like the first time I ever saw the sunset over the ocean.” A sweet grin came to her face. We chatted a bit more and she eventually wrote her phone number on a piece of paper. As George and I walked away, I was joyfully holding the scrap of paper like a winning lotto ticket.

The next day, George and I were in my hotel room, I excitedly called the number she gave me. The voice on the other end answered, “White House.” I immediately hung up and told George, “Dude, I can’t believe she works at the White House!” I again called the number and asked for Ana Ramirez, they said she was at a meeting at the Mexican Embassy. I left my name and number. I hung up looked at George; knowing we would be catching a plane back to LA the next day and said, “I’ll probably never see her again, that sucks.”

Later that night, George and I were invited to a black tie event with over two thousand people. After an hour or so of rubbing elbows with the Beltway elite, I heard a familiar voice behind me, “Excuse me, but the program is about to start and you are standing in front of my chair.”

I prayed my ears weren’t deceiving me, as I knew that voice. I turned around and it was her. I actually blurted out, “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” She looked a bit surprised and then laughed and said, “You really are crazy.” I thought, what were the odds; out of two thousand seats, I was standing in front of the one that belonged to her. I asked if she would join me for a drink afterwards. She agreed, as long as her friend Susie could come along.

After the event, Ana, Susie and I went for a drink. I even convinced Ana to slow dance with me. To this day, I could tell you what the temperature of the nape of her back was, as my fingers made contact with her for the first time. While we danced, she revealed to me that she had recently ended her engagement to Tomas, a Mexican diplomat who she unfortunately still had to interact with through her work in Washington D.C. and in Mexico City. She said she was at peace with the split, but she didn’t think that he was.

Over the next several weeks, Ana and I talked on the phone every day for hours. It was like being in Junior High again. We proceeded to date cross-country for several months. When I went to visit her, Ana and I would have meals with her D.C. friends who worked at places like The World Bank and IMF. The dinner conversations were about major global issues. In LA, we would meet with all my showbiz friends, which prompted Ana one night to ask me, “Do people in LA only talk about themselves?”

On one of my trips to D.C. Ana and I were at a dinner at an Embassy Row restaurant and her ex-fiancé, Tomas happened to be there too. He saw us and began to make a scene. I took him aside and told him that he needed to move on. He started cursing me out in Spanish. I could only laugh at his tongue lashing and told him I had no idea what he was saying, as I didn’t speak Spanish very well. That only infuriated him more. I had a feeling this was not the last I would see of him.

During one of our marathon phone calls, Ana told me that her brother Carlos was getting married in Mexico City and thought it was a perfect opportunity for me to meet her family. I agreed. I called my Mom to let her know that I was dating someone special and I was going to Mexico City to meet her family. My Mom had always wanted me to marry a nice Mexican girl; considering up to that point in my life, almost all of the women I dated were blondes with father issues.

My Mom said, “Make sure and take an extra suitcase with old clothes and some blankets for her family. When we were poor, people always helped us and we should always give back.”  I suddenly realized that I had no idea about Ana’s family’s financial position. I was so busy being head over heels for her, that it never occurred to me; nor was it important. But so as to respect my Mom’s intuition, I packed an extra huge suitcase for the trip.

On the plane, Ana I talked about how excited I was to go back to my motherland and how I was so proud to be Mexican. She immediately corrected me, “You are not Mexican, you are an American, and when you get to Mexico you will see.” I disagreed but was soon to find out how right she was.

When we arrived, I had no idea that Mexico City was seven thousand feet in altitude. It was December, so it was freezing. I brought clothing on this trip that only an ignorant American would bring; t-shirts jeans and shorts, none of which came in handy. My first night in town, Ana’s family took us to dinner at an elegant place called La Hacienda De Morales. I could have been in Beverly Hills for all I knew. It was so different than the images of Mexico and Mexicans, that I had ever seen in American movies.

As we sat in the bar area waiting for our dining table, it was quite apparent that I was severely underdressed in jeans, t-shirt and cowboy boots. Ana’s brother Carlos, her Mother Tere and her very distinguished Uncle Arturo, were all dressed in Zegna, Armani and Gucci. I decided that when I returned back to my hotel, I was going to toss my giant suitcase of second hand clothing; as it was obvious my Mom missed this one by a mile.

Uncle Arturo broke the ice, when he in the most demeaning of ways commented, “Jeff so I understand you’re… a magician.” I shot back, “Actually I’m a standup comedian, I hate magicians.” The waiter interrupted the tense moment when he brought a basket of tortilla chips with salt and limes, as well as four brandy snifters of tequila. Ana tried to redirect the conversation between Arturo and I. She proposed a toast. The family raised their brandy snifters of tequila. I instead reached down, grabbed the salt, sprinkled it on my hand, licked it, threw the tequila straight back and finished by biting into the lime and letting out a loud, “Aghhh!” They all were frozen with their glasses still in the toasting position. Unsure who should say something, Uncle Arturo looked at me and queried, “Jeff, why did you do that?” I confidently said, “That’s how you drink tequila.” He quickly countered, “No that is how you drink cheap bad tequila, this is a Portfidio Reserva De La Familia and is five hundred dollars a bottle, it is to be enjoyed like a nice cognac. Please don’t waste it. Score, Crazy Rich Mexicans one, clueless American, zero.

A few minutes later, Ana’s ex-fiancé Tomas happened to show up at our table explaining he was in town for work at the Embassy and for Carlos’ wedding, at the invitation of Uncle Arturo. He was dressed to the nines and swirling his oh so expensive brandy snifter of tequila like an expert; all the while maintaining the smuggest of expressions. He briefly spoke to her family in perfect Spanish and left. Needless to say, it was obvious he wasn’t over Ana yet. For the first time, I was starting to wonder if she was really over him.

The next day, Ana took me sightseeing to Teotihuacan, the massive pyramid outside of Mexico City also known as “The Pyramid of the Sun.” As we were mid-way up the two hundred and forty-eight steps, I was gasping for air, only to notice a woman who was easily in her seventies wearing a dress and in high heels, effortlessly climbed right past me. When we got to the top, Ana and I laid head to head and meditated. I had never meditated in my life before, but what a place to try it for the first time. It was an incredibly special moment. I found myself feeling even more crazy about her and realizing she was right, I wasn’t Mexican, I was an American; in love with Mexico and a crazy rich Mexican girl.

Later that day, when we got back to Mexico City, Ana’s Uncle Arturo invited us to his private country club for dinner. I’ve been to several beautiful country clubs in Bel Air and Beverly Hills, but they paled in comparison to this one. Arturo, dressed in loud Versace tennis clothes, greeted us in the lounge, which overlooked the most beautiful clay courts. As we settled for a drink, you will never guess who just happened to be there; Tomas of course. This guy was like a rash I couldn’t get rid of. Arturo invited him to join us for a drink, to which Tomas quickly obliged. The conversation turned to tennis; when I revealed I was a pretty good tennis player, Arturo suggested that Tomas and I play a friendly game. Ana, tried to talk me out of taking Arturo’s bait. My ego didn’t hear a thing she said. I went to the pro shop and bought clothes that I would normally have never worn; they were bright, branded and obnoxious. I walked on the court in my blinged-out tennis outfit, with one objective, destroy Tomas!

What Arturo never bothered to tell me, was that Tomas was the former National Clay Court Champion of Mexico. Jump to 30 minutes later, I was drenched in sweat, my clothes tattered and covered with red clay. I looked like an extra from “The Walking Dead.” I also found out unlike a regular tennis court, one can do the splits, on clay. Meanwhile, Tomas, hadn’t even broken a sweat. I could see Arturo the whole time talking to Ana and pointing to us. I was sure he was telling her that I was out of my league and that she is supposed to marry a nice boy like Tomas, from a nice family like hers. The look on Ana’s face at the end of the match, told me that Arturo was getting through to her and she may be having doubts.

One of the plans prior to Carlos’s wedding, was for her to show me the “real” Mexico for a few days. Our first stop was at a place called, Africam, in the nearby city of Puebla. Africam, is the second largest private nature reserve in the world. Ana was friends with Amy, the CEO of the reserve. We stayed in a private house surrounded by every type of wild animal imaginable. As romantic as it seemed, it was impossible to sleep at night with all the boisterous noises of the nocturnal creatures surrounding us.

During our short stay, we got to see giraffes up close, pet a white rhino and feed real monkeys. Amy warned me not to ever make eye contact with a monkey when feeding them. I quickly found out why. When I handed a monkey a banana, I thought I would be funny to try and have a staring contest. The contest was short lived, as the monkey leaped onto my face and bit me on my head. That incident required three stitches and a rabies shot. Between the tequila and the monkey faux pas, I was worried I wasn’t making a great impression on Ana.

We then toured the magnificent cities of Taxco, San Miguel Allende and Queretaro. The final stop of our trip was the city of Guanajuato. If you blindfolded someone and dropped them in Guanajuato, they would think they were in Madrid. The plazas were rich with Spanish architecture, music and food. All the roads are mine shafts that run under the city. It was amazing! I think Ana was enjoying seeing my wide-eyed innocence of experiencing the “real” Mexico.

That afternoon, we were relaxing by the pool of our hotel. Our peace was interrupted by a father and his son, who had wandered into the deep end and couldn’t swim. It was one of those moments where everything goes into slo-mo. I jumped in, pulled the little boy out and tossed him to the side of the pool where Ana comforted him. The father by this point, was fighting to stay above water. As I reached for him, two full figured women fully clothed, who turned out to be the aunts of the family, jumped in to try and help. The problem was, they didn’t swim either. I don’t remember how, but I managed to get all three of them out and do CPR on one of the women who needed it by the time I got to her. When I was done, Ana wrapped me in a towel and congratulated me for saving four people’s lives, I noticed on the other side of the pool a Mexican preppie guy in a lawn chair drinking a brandy snifter of tequila. He reminded me entirely too much of Tomas. I was pissed, I asked him why he didn’t help. He just stared at me with a smug look, that I wanted to wipe off his face. Ana convinced me to go back to our room and avoid the conflict.

A few days later, we attended Ana’s brother’s wedding. It looked like the Royals were being wed. Horse drawn carriages, floral arrangements like I had never seen, oh and seven hundred guests. When Carlos and his wife-to-be, were kneeling at the alter in the cavernous cathedral, Ana’s  brother suddenly keeled over and passed out in the middle of the ceremony. I helped get him outside for some fresh air and being a believer in signs, I delicately asked if he was sure that he wanted to go through with this. All I got was a dazed and confused look, he obviously needed more air. As I got Carlos stabilized, I felt a hand on my back. It was Ana’s Uncle Arturo. He said he was really impressed with the advice I was trying to give Carlos and also heard from Ana, about how I saved a family from drowning in Guanajuato. He admitted maybe he was wrong about me and said, “I promised Ana’s father, my brother, when he passed, that I would always look over her. I can see she really cares about you.” He paused for a beat, then finished. “If you ever hurt her, I will kill you.” He hugged me and welcomed me to the family and to Mexico. I wish I had a photo of my face at that moment.

The reception after the wedding, spared no expense. It was in the courtyard of an old Hacienda that looked straight out of a movie. The reception lasted until midnight, when a spectacular fireworks display lit up the sky. The fireworks, were immediately followed by the largest Mariachi band I had ever seen, and unfortunately by a very drunk Tomas and his very young and scantily clad rent-a-date. Ana suggested we just avoid Tomas.

In the wee hours of the reception, I struck up a chat with the singer in the wedding band, I have to admit I had very few conversations at the wedding, as I felt really out of place. He and I were doing tequila shots, the old fashioned American way. I was getting pretty hammered; I looked across the Hacienda courtyard and noticed Tomas approach Ana by himself. He got on one knee and started to propose to her. As I started walking towards them to break up this madness, a large group of Mariachis waded into the moment and blocked me from seeing what was happening. By the time I shoved my way past the Mariachis, Ana and Tomas were both gone. I was drunk and angry. I walked out of the wedding and into a taxi.

I booked a flight out the next night but had an entire day to kill. I went back to the top of Teotihuacan to try and clear my head. As I lay at the top of the pyramid, I heard a voice yell my name. It was Ana. I asked how she knew I would be there. She told me because she “knew me” and besides I was really predictable. I went through a rant of how she was still in love with Tomas and all the other insecure nonsense that I was feeling. She climbed up the pyramid and patiently explained to me what really happened. She said she told Tomas no to his proposal and asked him to leave us alone forever. She said she looked everywhere for me and then left when she couldn’t find me. Needless to say, we made up, then we laid head to head at the top of Teotihuacan and basked in the sun together.

A few weeks after we had returned from the wedding, Ana came to visit me in LA. We went for a walk along the beach in Santa Monica and I decided to propose to her. In keeping with my “smitten” comment when I first met her, I decided to pop the question on the beach at sunset. She was so shocked when I asked her to marry me, she accidentally dropped the engagement ring in the sand. We frantically dug with no luck. Thank God there was an old guy on the beach with a metal detector, who took financial advantage of the situation and asked me to pay him fifty bucks to find the ring.  I was upset, but had no leverage and paid him. He quickly located the ring, saw the diamond and groused that he should have asked for more. Ana joyfully put the ring on her finger. I reminded her she hadn’t said, “yes.”

She smiled and cooed, “Claro que si.” I spoke enough Spanish to know what that meant. We looked out across the water and felt like it was the first time we had both watched the sunset over the ocean.

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