It Ain’t Easy Being Mexican

 

            Some years ago my mother-in-law, and brother- in-law visited us here in Stockton from Mexico City. In the midst of the usual small talk, I said something to the effect that I considered myself “Mexican.”  “No, tu no eres Mexicano”, she said. “Yes, I am,” I countered. “No, you are not.  You are an American,” she insisted. “But both of my parents were Mexican!”  “That doesn’t make any difference. To be Mexican, you would have had to be born in Mexico.” Worse, I expected my cuñado to come to my defense, but he just acquiesced. “She’s right, Richard. You were born here, so you are not Mexican.”

            I was deeply hurt. Angry. Yes, I was born “ here”, but I had always considered myself Mexican. The idea that an arbitrary line in the sand, nay a cyclone fence, could designate my ethnicity infuriated me! In my day, we had no designations like Mexican-American, Latino, Hispanic. The word Chicano was bantered about, but it was a cautionary term, loaded with a enchilada-full of negative connotations: “Don’t you know that Chicano means "Chingádo?” Mexicans would ask incredulously. Having learned my lesson, I wouldn’t dare use it to call myself around my suegrita, and cuñado, or any Mexican. Later on, of course, the label took on some measure of respect.

          I mean, what did these people want from me? My parents were both from Mexico. I speak Spanish (though minced), I eat tortillas and frijoles, I love chíle, and Menudo; I listen to Pedro Infánte, Jorge Negréte, and laugh at the caustic lines of Cantínflas. I too go bananas when I hear a Mariachi strike up, and savor a shot of tequila con limon y sal. I can play a guitar, sing corridos and rancheras, and even a bolero or two? I listen to Ignacio Lopez Tárzo and totally get him. One time, I even peed alongside Cuco Sanchez in the men’s room during a concert in Mexico City, for Pete’s sake! So what if I happen to speak English, too, through no fault of my own? Don’t hold that against me.

       To me, being Mexican ought to be a thing of the heart, El Corazón. Or something in one’s blood, sangre. Strangely,  Americans had no problem calling me “Mexican”, including some of my teachers when I was a kid. During the 40s, when some of us were ashamed or too embarrassed to call ourselves Mexican, we opted for being “Spanish”, a word we deemed had more class.

       Oddly, I wound up becoming a Chicano/Mexican Studies teacher in college and my job was to teach about culture, in our case, Mexican culture and history and how it impacted who and what we immigrants of that culture have become, and how that fits into our amazing Melting Pot.  Luckily, I knew about it first hand, not just from a book. Even students from Mexico or Latin America were amazed with what they learned about “their culture” in my classes.

        As if in a final, sweet twist of irony, Marina, one of my Mexican students, an immigrant, raised her hand in class one day saying, “You know, Mr. Rios, I find it ironic that I was born and raised in Mexico and had to come to the United States to learn about my culture!” Asi es.

 

Give 'Em An Inch And They'll Take a Mile: The Browning of America

For years we have heard that Mexicans and Latin Americans make poor candidates to become American citizens. They don't assimilate well. They stick to their own kind, insist on speaking Spanish, and watch only Spanish language TV.

But in truth we don't have to worry whether Mexicans become good Americans, but will Americans make good Mexicans! I am referring to the Browning of America. There will be no revolution, no taking back our own country by force, or any of that stuff. It will be silent, swift and final. There is no escape. Hasta La Vista, dude.

I mean look around you. When was the last time you heard someone say: "Hasta la vista, baby", "Ain't givin' you nada, zip!" "Better get going buster, and I mean pronto!" "You gone loco or what?" How about "Viva Viagra!" (Yeah!) One Texas Tornado song says: "Hey Baby que paso? I thought I was your only Vato?" How about a little Tex-Mex music? Little Joe Y La Familia croons: "I'm just a good ol' Redneck Mexican Boy!"

It's sneaking into your food too. Carne asada? Chile Verde, Chile Colorado, Taquitos? Guacamole? Tostadas? Quesadillas? Chipotle Hamburgers? Jalapenos on your Pizza? Give me a break.

We all know that Hispanics make up nearly 50% of the U.S. population, and more in some parts of the country (and those numbers are based on those who actually open the door when the Census workers knock!). "Mama, there is a Gringo knocking on the door! Don't open it Mijo, it might be an immigration officer or a tax man!" Soon they will be a majority.

Voice messages instruct you: "For English, press 1, for Spanish press 2." Soon it will be: "For English, please stay on the line and your call will be taken in the order it was received." In some states, voters pamphlets and ballots are translated in Spanish to the ire of many. We don't even read them in English!

They fill kitchens at the best hotels, Home Town Buffet, Pollo Loco, and El Torito. They change the linens of your beds at motels, pick your crops, roof your houses and grease your cars.

Infiltration is evident in our schools; Hispanics now teach U.S. History, Spanish, and even English courses! As a college English teacher I used to joke with my students: "Things are so bad, that now Mexicans have to teach you guys how to speak English, your own language!" I had Asian immigrants that spoke and wrote better English than my native speakers. Imagine that.

I remember when Gringo teachers taught Mexicans to speak Spanish in High School and the students got an "F" in it! How messed up is that. The time has come to take your own medicine. Cinco de Mayo, Day of The Dead, Ballet Folkloricos, Mariachis, are part of the curriculum. Are you ready for English as a second language for Native English speakers? Whoa.

Hey, how about a cerveza, a Corona, Tecate, or let's have a shot of Tequila or two while we wait? If we drink too much we'll just order up a bowl of Menudo.

Taco trucks have replaced hot dog stands. White dudes in ties line up for a super burrito at lunch.

Go back where you came from? Hardly, that'll have to be Europe, my friend. How can we fight it? We can't. Just kick back and take a little siesta and it will soon be over. After all, there are worse things. We could be taken over by Martians. The whole thing is really no problema.

Quetzalcoatl: Rediscovering My Roots

When I was hired as a Chicano Studies instructor back in 1972, I knew little about Mexico or its history, save what my mom told me about her childhood in Torreon, Coahuila (Northern Mexico) in the early 1900's, and a couple of trips I had taken to Mexico City before I met my wife there in the mid-60's. I spoke what I believed was Spanish, and ate what I thought was Spanish food. The pioneer Chicano Studies teachers of the late 60's and early 70's, were self-taught, since there were no courses we could have taken in any American school that taught us anything contrary to the steady diet of a Western or Europeanized view of the world. So we had to teach ourselves by reading and traveling! We were just a chapter ahead of our students, in the few textbooks available to us at the time.

I found Mexico's history engrossing. How could I have grown up and missed this? Oh, the price of assimilation! When I returned to Mexico now I had a new mission, to touch and see for myself the art of ancient Mexico, the Maya, the Aztecs, Teotihuacan, Tula, and Chichen-Itza, the Aztec calendar, and the murals of Rivera, Orozco and Siqueiros and share that with my students. Standing on top of the pyramids of Monte Alban and Tulum on the Carribean coast filled me with a renewed sense of pride, of belonging. These were my people too, and I felt a kinship far beyond that of a tourist. I was stunned to learn of the brutality of the Spanish conquest of Mexico in 1521, of Hernan Cortez, of 300 hundred years of Colonialism, the War of Independence and Miguel Hidalgo in 1810, Mexico's first indian president, Benito Juarez, and the Mexican Revolution of 1910.

One day, when my mother-in-law visited my wife and I from Mexico City, I made the mistake of referring to myself as a Mexican. "No, tu no eres Mexicano", she said." "Si soy", I countered. "No." "Si." "No." "Si." I became more and more irritated until she decreed "No nacistes en Mexico, nacistes aqui en los Estados Unidos. Por eso no eres Mexicano." I could not accept the notion that just because I was born in the U.S. I could no longer refer to myself as Mexican. To me, being Mexican was a thing of the heart, the soul, the mind. It was all about beans, tortillas, chiles, menudo, tamales, enchildadas, Mexican music (rancheras, boleros, corridos), mariachis and gritos. Besides, both of my parents were born in Mexico! To my mother-in-law, to be Mexican, was simply a matter of geography, not of the heart.

Over the years, I have come to realize that my Mexican heritage is a gift I cherish, one that no one can take from me. No wonder my mom's last words to me as I left for college were: "Nunca se te olvide que eres Mexicano" (never forget you are Mexican). And forget I did, in the decade that followed as I went through college and we studied the art of every culture except Mexican. OK, so I'm not a real Mexican. I wanted to be. On the other hand, many of us have grappled with the pressure to assimilate: become Americanized: "You must forget your culture", we are told, as if we have to choose between one or the other! To hang onto to our culture is baggage and blatantly un-American. Yet so many us have perfected being bilingual and bicultural (even tricultural or more-orale!!) There is a choice to be made, yes. A very important and conscious choice. The choice to be a person of two cultures, two languages, both Mexican and American, a Chicano!

And like the old song says: No, no you can't take that away from me."

Pretending To be Mexican: The New Tio Tacos?

Today I read where Central and South Americans in Los Angeles have been pretending to be Mexicans in order to get jobs. First, they need to acquire a Mexican accent, then learn some new words (especially swear words) and last eat Mexican food. They live in fear of being uncovered and potentially losing their jobs. Wow, in my day Mexicans worked hard to pretend they were anglos, but this?? Who would've thunk it? We called them "coconuts" (brown on the outside, but white on the inside), or Tio Tacos. They went so far as to change their names, especially their last names. The classic example is Victoria Carranza, who renamed herself Vicky Carr! One of the best stories I ever heard was from one of my students years back by the name of Ronnie Lopstain. He called himself a Chicano but I had my doubts. One day I confronted him about it, inquiring how he came to get the name, instead of say, Lopez or something. He told me that in fact his father's name was Lopez, but the family moved into a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in San Francisco and opened a corner grocery store calling it "Lopez Groceries". When few clients frequented his business, his father decided to change the store's name to "Lopestain Groceries", but in time refined it to Lopstain! Needless to say his business increased tenfold! When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?