Nothing breeds opportunity like controversy. And when the former arrives in the guise of a cool baseball tee - even better! I don't think Sonia Sotomayor thought she'd birth a fashion line when she spoke in 2001 to the University of California's Berkeley School of Law. But I'm glad it happened. Because now there are hoodies, journals, aprons, and thongs reminding us that even in this economy, simple words can still turn a buck or two.
As the daughter of Cuban immigrants, and of a father who runs his own small business, I applaud virtual merchant Nova for thinking on her feet.
In a similar spirit, I'd like to offer a mini-thesaurus to all the journalists out there who are running out of Latino-flavored adjectives to describe the soon-to-be judge. I've seen "fiery" and "spicy" in abundance, but since I wouldn't want anyone to confuse Sotomayor with a jar of salsa, here are some others. Use at your will, deadline scribes. The cost is gratis. 
feisty, frisky, gutsy, scrappy, vibrant, sparkling, effervescent, calorific, spirited, emphatic, impassioned, vehement, peppy, frolicsome, zippy, sportive, sprightly, spunky, vigorous, dauntless, avid, audacious, plucky, fearless.
I'd like to close out with some words by another wise Latina - poet Sheryl Luna. I met her in West Palm Beach at a reading for the excellent The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry. I haven't seen her since, although we do give one another an occasional on-line shout-out. But I do feel like I know her a bit because of her blog, which is filled with music and writing that is unpretentious and soulful. Much like her poems.
Here's an excerpt from Pity the Drowned Horses.
Woman as a River Between Borders, by Sheryl Luna
I. The Chihuahua Desert
I rose early to wash the desert grime, watch
the unearthly flight of doves, the way pigeons
were poisoned incorrectly or how an elephant
was beaten with a stick. This is the way
of beginnings, women charmed by fits of language,
the cadence of bees around garbage cans,
the laughter of grackles, hot sun baking Coca-Cola
to sidewalks. Tumbleweeds and arroyos hush
day-long trips through barrios.
I am sand. My eyes grainy, tears brown,
and what of the different tones of bees or flies,
how a sting can kill us?
I'm speaking the language of smokers,
lung-full and wary, breathing a refinery chore,
my eyes black pits. Historically
I was fruit, voluptuous and campy, some might say
exotic, cheekbones native, my hips swaying.
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