Monday, August 14, 2023

The Edge of 44

 On the edge of 44



In less than seven hours it will be my 44th birthday. In years past I'd always made some goal for my next birthday. It was typically centered around my body―my weight, more specifically. This year I just wanted to feel good in my body. And tomorrow I’m celebrating so much more than that. 


I had a goal at the beginning of 2023―I wanted to stop accepting the unacceptable. I needed to put myself back in the driver seat and take control of what only I could…my inner peace and my ability to operate happily in a world that I ultimately cannot control.


This ambitious mindset was not without its challenges and it certainly isn't complete. I've made some hard and drastic decisions work wise, and it has negatively affected our finances in the short term, but I know that will pass. It always does. 


The healing and introspection I've forced myself to do even if it required me to be vulnerable and admit my wrongs has been "interesting." The expanding of comfort zones and self-talk has been rocky, but then something clicked.


I found gratitude. So much fucking gratitude. I realized that all of these moments that seem mundane and miniscule are moments that I'll long for later on, so I'd better appreciate them now. 


I looked at all of the people who've shown up to share the love they feel for me through their actions and time as a testimony of what I mean to them. And I started loving the parts of myself I concealed out of fear of rejection. 


Last night my husband and I had an expensive dinner at a swanky place. I decided to be brave and wear lingerie under my outfit. Mind you, this is an undergarment I'd tried on months before and at the time I picked my appearance apart.


But when I put it on this time, I proudly exclaimed "Look at me!" to my husband. I couldn't believe it came out of my mouth. I found nothing in the mirror to criticize―I rejected any negative thoughts. Progress.


After getting dressed, I hustled out of the house to avoid any opportunity to look in the mirror and obsess over a wrinkle or another imperfection I could manifest. Instead I choose to stay in the moment and make a memory with my husband.


We had a wonderful dinner eating, drinking and talking about our hopes and goals for the next year. We made a quick stop at our oldest daughter's apartment on the way home. I know, not much of a sexy night, but the fact that I could call a twenty-two-year-old up on a Saturday night and she excitedly told me to stop by is another affirmation of how lucky I am.


After the short visit we drove home with the windows down, music up loud and wind blowing through our hair as we headed toward the golden hour sunset.


Once home I freshened up for part two―dance party in our underwear. My husband indulged me, but it had been my plan all along. As of late, I've found a reason to incorporate dance into my life every day. Music is to be enjoyed and it feels so good to celebrate it. So for this occasion, I pre-made a special playlist.


We had the house to ourselves with exception of our big black lab, but even he got into the festivities. And for the next few hours we were young and free without any obligations. Happily in our bubble of fun and relaxation. And we slow danced. I don't think in 17 years, we've actually ever slow danced, as we had a courthouse wedding and no real reception. But last night, we did.


We wound down the evening with some chips and TV and called it an earlier night than I expected. This morning we enjoyed a walk with the dog and a quiet start to the day. And I just can't stop thinking about last night. I can't stop reminiscing about the way it felt the moment I realized that for the first time in my life, I FINALLY feel good being me. 


Happy 44th, Emy J. Happy Birthday to me.


Tuesday, May 24, 2022

What Defines Us- The Short Tale of a White Washed Half Mexican

I don't pretend to know more than I do about who I am and where I came from. Some days I feel guilty about this, like I didn't ask enough questions or pay attention when stories were being told. I worry that those I rely on for ancestral information will be gone and I'll have no point of reference. My history will be intangible, just like my grandparents, and the bits of the foundation that created our family will vanish.

But today the fact that I have always been what I consider an "in-betweener" was magnified in a painful way and brought to the surface many insecurities I felt growing up. Someone I know posted on social media that you cannot consider yourself Mexican if you don't speak Spanish. 

I'm the proud granddaughter of Mexican immigrants. As children, both of my father’s parents migrated across the border for a safer land with more promise. It was no easy venture, but in many ways a much simpler process than today. I'm ever so aware that their parents worked hard to assimilate and raise their families in the Merced Valley. 

My grandparents married when my grandma was 19 and within 12 years she birthed five boys, took care of her husband and home, attended church like a good Catholic and worked at the local cannery and chicken processing plant. My grandfather served in World War II, worked in garlic fields, did other manual labor, started the first local all Mexican baseball league and continued to work hard even after he suffered a heart attack when my father was 14. In all honesty, I'm not sure about all of what he did, but I can tell you that his funeral had standing room only inside their local Catholic church. The sight of a church filled to the brim with people I had never met in his honor made me realize there was much I did not know about him. He was a very quiet, humble man. Soft spoken, clean cut and had a special way of speaking I couldn't imitate if I tried. I've been told he wasn't always this way, especially as my father was growing up, but I assume that much of my grandmother's strong will and fighting spirit tamed that out of him. All I remember of them together was unity. He was her world. 

They were my only living grandparents. They were all I knew for family. Every major holiday or vacation was spent at their home four hours away in the tiny town of Livingston. They had a very small two bedroom one bath home, with a deep back yard. The kitchen was my grandma's area and you best move along quickly through it while she was cooking. 

The dining table took up much of the living space, but that was necessary to host everyone. And the small living room had just enough space for the adults to sit and watch sporting events on a modest television. There were no bells and whistles. Everything in their home was earned. It wasn't overly decorated or gaudy. It was simple and functional, but it was full of some of my favorite people when we’d visit.

I was blessed to have tons of cousins, most of them had siblings and I was basically an only child. My older sister was the first grandchild and was often looked up to by my cousins. I was an oddball--but I didn't care, I loved being around them all and envied their sibling relationships. 

Music and food were big in my grandparent’s home. It could be anything from Motown to Mariachi. The food was the center of it all. Whether it be tamales at Christmas, pork in the ground at my uncle’s or the most simple pleasure of my grandma's homemade beans, fresh tortilla's and a glass of Sunny Delight (a favorite comfort food to this day). And the sounds of my grandma and grandpa speaking Spanish to each other in passing---these are some of my favorite memories. It felt like a whole different world from the one I knew daily. It had different music, culture, food, scenery. Sounds and smells were different, and at that time it was as close as I was going to get for quite some time to anything international. And I loved being a part of it, even if I didn't truly feel like I blended in. Because in many ways, I didn't.

We didn't speak Spanish in our house. Why would we? And my grandparents reserved that for when they didn't want the kids to know what they were saying, or if they were speaking to each other in passing. To this day, I'm unsure about how many of my cousins actually know Spanish, it was not something we spoke or were encouraged to learn to speak. After all, in the 1980's, the thought of America becoming bilingual was not on anyone's radar and my grandparents had to assimilate and teach their children the same if they were going to "make it" in America. 

There were no dual-immersion schools or bilingual services. The mindset was, you live in America, you speak English. And in that, some cultural preservation was sacrificed in the name of survival and success. What we have available today was never foreseen by my parents, and especially not my grandparents. 

To be clear, I wasn't raised to be ashamed of my heritage. But beyond the traditional food, religion, music and celebratory nature, I wasn't encouraged to preserve it either, because at the time, no one anticipated that it would be necessary or beneficial. We were Mexican, but we were American. The journey for that to be wasn't easy for my grandparents. I do not blame or resent that mindset. It's unfortunate, but I understand it. 

I grew up in a VERY small town in Northern California---not like Bay Area Northern, but Shasta County, Northern. I often say I grew up in Redding because people know where that is, but in actuality, I lived in the small town of Anderson eight miles south, in a rural neighborhood. We were in a very small, right-wing area with little amenities. It still mystifies me to this day how my six foot tall, very brown, enigmatic Dad liked it there, made so many friends and never appeared to let his race be an issue. 

Because I lived in a very white town, I didn't meet another Mexican kid until middle school and coincidentally enough, he had the same last name as I did, so everyone thought we were brother and sister. Even with my last name being obviously Hispanic, I was often white-passing or occasionally mistaken for Italian. 

One of my first encounters with racism was at the age of 11, hearing a popular girl use a slang term for Mexicans on the bus home from school one day. From an early age I was taught two words that were NOT OKAY when referring to Mexicans and she used one of them. I was horrified, embarrassed, angry and sad. I wanted to stand up for myself and my family, but I was too afraid. 

When we moved out of California and to Oregon when I was a teenager, I thought the bigger town would offer more culture. But over the course of my high school years I was called "Juan" by a couple of "friends" and didn't feel like I could relate to the small group of Latin students who had recently transplanted from Southern California because I didn't speak Spanish. I was once told by a friend that I wasn't "that kind of Mexican" because she was used to only agricultural workers. I wasn't Mexican enough to be Mexican, and I wasn't White enough to not be. But regardless, my family was my favorite part about me. Any chance to be with them was special. Any celebration was made that much better because of how celebratory we were, the food we ate, the music we danced. We were different from any other family I knew and any of the friends I took with me to visit my family always noticed the difference, but in the best way.

It wasn't until I was nearing my 20s that being bilingual started to become popular, and in many ways, an asset. Local schools had dual-immersion to cater to the growing Latin population. Businesses were hiring Spanish speakers and more of the Hispanic culture was immersing itself--FINALLY! But I was complacent. I tried to learn Spanish from books and tapes and quickly gave up because I couldn't pronounce things correctly. And regardless of the societal changes, I still encountered racism from those who thought they were in the presence of another white person. If they didn't understand name origin, or had never met my dad, they wouldn't know I was anything else. But then there was also the flip side. On occasion, if someone found out I was Mexican, they would expect me to speak Spanish, and when I couldn't, they were shocked as if I should and made fun of me for being a bad Mexican. Hence, the role of the "in-betweener."

Now reading all this, you might think that I'm a whiner and it's quite possible I am. You might also wonder, what the hell this rambling is about. Let me get back to my first point. Because in all honesty, this entire blog post is all one large justification for why I am the way I am, and also to let the person who so ignorantly posted a rant about someone not being allowed to call themselves Mexican if they don't speak Spanish or are immersed in their culture enough that statements like that alienate allies and those like me (there are plenty of us) who were born into a time when we didn't know there would be so much space, reliance and acknowledgement of the Latin community and their heritage. 

We didn't know speaking more than English, which generations like my grandparents' were told they needed to speak, would be encouraged. They also worked very hard to immerse themselves, there weren't easily accessible English classes, books or immersion courses, other than a society they were forced to blend into--so I'm sure you can understand why they felt it was so important that their children and their grandchildren knew how to properly speak, read and write the language of the country they lived in. They were worried if they didn't follow suit, they would be chastised. My grandmother didn't make it past the eighth grade and she moved the USA at ten. That should tell you all you need to know about how hard it was for her to go to school when it was all in English and she was still learning the language. I can only imagine that struggle enforced her sentiments, that she didn't want her own children to suffer the same. 

It's true that I could probably be a "better" Mexican. I could learn more about my ancestors and the state from where they came from. I could take a Spanish course or two. But what I can tell you is that where I came from and who my family is, is so important to me that it has influenced by oldest daughter to take Spanish all through high school. She has more Mexican friends than I ever had. She sings in Spanish, loves Spanish music and has an affection for Latin culture. But she too felt the influence and specialness of our family and our Hispanic roots. That has never been withheld. 

I have often joked that I am the "Whitest Mexican" I know. Perhaps as a defense mechanism, to beat someone else to the punch, but it's not true. I deeply value my heritage, my parents, my grandparents and my ancestors who sacrificed and struggled to live the American Dream. I cry for those who still try to obtain it and are met with horrific prejudices and treatment. I pray that the decisiveness and racism will end. And I hope that those who feel someone isn't "enough" of something to identify with it understand that they are being counterproductive in their fight for injustice towards the Latin community.