Flower, Flame and Iron

When I was writing fiction – and I took my time writing seriously – I was always struggling for an idea of identity. My biggest ambition was to write an entertaining yet enlightening view of what it’s like to live in the upper Midwest as a Mexican child, the only Mexican child in that school system besides your older brother (who was, despite his last name, quite passable). I encountered many, many forms of ethnocentrism and racism from my classmates, teachers, and friends’ parents, but it was all tinted with the small-town-in-the-Midwest niceness. And it was all colored with the view that, once they got to know me, I was a tribute to my country and not like the others. The others were always dark, dirty, lazy, drunken and abusing resources. I, on the other hand, showed proper respect for the nice Midwesterners, learned my lessons well, and didn’t abuse systems to my advantage. I was a good Mexican to them, but Mexican no less. To this day, the school system I had to endure hasn’t been fully integrated.

My situation was unique in that, being positioned closely the University of Michigan, my neighbors in Saline thought themselves progressive and somewhat urbane, more New York than Small Town, USA. There was some openness, but only because the U of M was nearby, and the openness always carried a form of condescension, as noted in the above paragraph. What Saline refused to see was its ugly side, the side that said the little brown children would be the ones to carry lice (dirty, those Mexicans), couldn’t make the grades (not that bright, those Mexicans), couldn’t speak the language (resistant against assimilation, those Mexicans), and were bad influences on their kids (troublemakers, those Mexicans). In the 9-1/2 years I spent in the Saline school system, I had to exceed every expectation anyone had of me. I have to confess now that breaking those expectations was not hard – the bar was set extremely low and even in my little mind back then I knew they didn’t expect much of me, those teachers, friends and parents. When I broke through easy barriers time and again – beating those white kids around me who were supposed to be much smarter – some people would admire me, most would resent me. The ugly side would come out again with the condescension – just because you’re good and a credit to your people doesn’t mean you’re like us and it doesn’t mean that anyone from your country could do what you can do. It’s only because we’ve given you these opportunities that you’ve managed to succeed. So be grateful and don’t complain when we strike at you in other ways, during class or on the playground or on the bus.

So I’ve always struggled a bit with identity. A part of me really loves that I grew up in Michigan in the shadow of a great university. I was exposed to different ideas (because not everyone in Saline was an asshole – a lot of people just treated me like the kid that I was), I grew up in a balanced environment with equal dashes of Mexican and American culture (which lends to my belief that home is multiple places). I’m somewhat proud of being from Michigan. Instead of living in California near family and going through a pattern that many of my cousins have followed – teen pregnancy, drugs, failed attempts at higher education – I was able to grow up in a cold environment (both literally and figuratively) and I feel like that made me stronger. I certainly don’t sneeze at the education I received – for all its faults, Saline is a good educational system. I did receive a lot of opportunities, true. But you see, it didn’t come from the accommodating teachers who gave me grudging respect or from the parents who “let” their kids hang out with me. The opportunities came wholly from my hardworking parents and from determination within and outside of me. So how do I communicate how this place has influenced me and not discount who I am as a Mexican woman, daughter and sister? How do I recognize the circumstances that brought me to where I am today without dismissing my inherent Mexicanness? I went through a time when I believed that the Midwest might have stolen it from me. I am afraid, at times, that I am simply whitewashed and unsympathetic towards the struggles that most Mexicans have.

But my mexicanidad, as it were, wasn’t stolen from me. First and foremost is language – while a lot of first generation immigrants encourage English speaking in order to assimilate faster, my parents were adamantly against that. ¡Habla español! my mother would yell at me when I was a kid (and I confess that I resented her for that – sitting down to talk as a family instead of pouncing on me unexpectedly would’ve developed my language skills quickly – note to self for teaching Spanish to potential kids). Even though the yelling wasn’t pleasant, I do understand her a bit. After all, we were far from family and didn’t have connections in the area, so it was essential to keep our identities as Mexicans even as we dug ourselves deeper into Saline life. To be able to say, after all these years and all this time in the States, that I can speak Spanish is a great gift. Many of my fellow “Latinos” and “Hispanics” (oh how I hate those words in terms of identity) don’t know the language and it’s a damn shame. It’s not that I know a secret that they don’t – it’s that knowing how to speak Spanish makes it easier to access your other homes when you want to.

My parents, for reasons still unknown to me, gave me the opportunity to live in Mexico for a time. It was a valuable experience in life that I would never trade, but at the time I didn’t want a part of it. I would rather have been joining my sixth grade class for a trip to Toronto (as it stands, I was the only WordNerd kid to miss out on that, but I did get to live there for a year). However, living and breathing Mexico for 2-1/2 years was like nothing else. It’s here where I get angry at Latinos/Hispanics/Chicanos for insinuating that I have no love of culture, no rhythm or soul, that I am a boring white person wrapped in a Mexican’s skin tone (and it is here where I’m most likely to fire back and ask if they can speak Spanish – in my experience, I get silence in return). In Mexico, I connected with the roots of my culture, national pride and deep history that affects us all today. There is nothing like knowing a place, and in that regard I am extremely lucky. I got to take part in bailables and desfiles; I watched Catholic processions that would later come to mind when I studied the Wakefield Cycle or the York mystery plays; much of my political belief system, which is relatively quiet on this blog, was formed while in Mexico – I saw injustices and the effects of northern neighbors and machismo and sexism and racism in a whole new, quintessentially Mexican light. My American side was never far from me, and it certainly influenced my reading of Mexico, but Mexico also influenced my reading of the U.S. Having that type of connection to both worlds was – and is – amazing. Because of having spent time living in Mexico, I am rewarded a truly Mexican by first generation immigrants and people back in Mexico – a “title” and “honor” that’s not bestowed on most Latino/Hispanic/Chicano activists. (It’s not fair at all, by the way, but it is true.)

But back to identity. How to find one when you’re questioned about your loyalties on both sides? On the one hand, people insist I am American simply because I have citizenship papers, but it goes much deeper than that. I acknowledge that the Midwest is a primary ingredient of my makeup; however, it’s not the only thing that makes me. And yes, a Mexican who has lived in the Midwest is probably quieter and may appear apathetic – however, do you know what it’s like to fight the racism day in and day out without allies? A Mexican who refuses to take on the labels other than her home country is also problematic – the nationalism of Latinos and Chicanos (particularly second generation and above) can be overwhelming but my refusing to take on those labels makes me a target for their disdain despite my cultural knowledge and my assertion of both my identities. Both sides demand that I be all or nothing. It’s very distressing. If another war broke out between Mexico and the United States (and calm down, white supremacists and Lou Dobbs, it’s not going to happen), I’d probably move back to Toronto.

So who am I? It’s sometimes hard to define. I’ve always said that my name is the best identifier that I have since it emphasizes all the different aspects of me – a Basque surname that indicates the Spanish occupation of Mexico, a first name bestowed by my very Catholic grandmother who loved me like no other, a middle name that recognizes my mother’s roots and family. In the pronunciation of my first name, I have the very wonderful Spanish pronunciation that brings to mind pan and Primera A (my 7th grade class) and las cuadrillas de Durango; in the English pronunciation, there’s pizza and Middle English and nights spent at Dominick’s. It’s the middle ground that’s always disorienting – when my co-workers, past and present, English speakers all, try to pronounce my name “correctly” only to trigger a cringe reaction deep inside the pit of my stomach that I associate with a display of (Mexican) cultural knowledge that they don’t possess; when friends in Mexico would mockingly say my name in an American accent and end up reducing me to a sense of guilt and a position of distasteful privilege. When I was asked, recently, by a visitor to my work what pronunciation I preferred, I honestly replied: “Both are correct but if you’re not a Spanish speaker, I prefer the English version.” The questioner thanked me for my leveling with her. “All you ever have to do is ask. And thanks for doing that,” I told her.

So in my writing of that great Mexican Midwestern novel, I would always stumble. I didn’t know how to start thinking about it, let alone develop it. I could come up with a title and write, comically, by Wordnerd WordNerdas Wordnerdia, but not get past those two words. A lot of who I am is wrapped up in those three words. I don’t even know how to begin to tangle out more in a coherent form. Maybe this post is a start.