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.
No comments:
Post a Comment