Posted 6 years, 5 months ago around lunchtime by oso
I wrote this yesterday after reading David Brook’s Op-Ed piece for the NY Times called the The Americano Dream, which was a critique of Samuel Huntington’s Foreign Policy article and forthcoming book entitled The Hispanic Challenge. A review of that FP article will be posted tomorrow.
It’s 9 a.m. and I’m having my morning coffee and reading the paper here at Urban Grind in South Park (a name I never understood since all of South Park is north of Balboa Park). A strange sense of responsibility has come over me; something akin to parenthood … or at least taking care of a plant not belonging to the cactus family. My living situation as of late has been like this: my girlfriend Laura and I live together with my 14-year-old sister while my mother lives in Bali. (the ‘rents are divorced and dad lives on the other side of San Diego). Then when Laura and I take off to travel; like we did in January and like we will do in June, my mom comes back and looks after my sister. This seems to work out pretty well for us since my mother does not like living in the United States, but I’m concerned about Crystal’s stability and think it is helpful if not important to stay in the same school for four years in a row, to learn how to maintain the same friendships and commitments for long periods of time. I myself am a product of switching schools (and cities and states) every year or two and, as a result, any kind of commitment more than two months seems like a life-time sentence to me. Usually I freak out and I bail.
I digress. So this morning around 6:30 my sister – she’s so amazing – comes into our room to ask which one of us will be taking her to school. We mumble something incoherently (stayed up too late watching a movie last night) and she went to the kitchen to make us coffee and toast a bagel. Today’s free museum Tuesday at Balboa Park so Laura and I decided (trying to force our eyes open, the aroma of coffee helping) that we would both drop off my sister at her school, then I would drop off Laura at San Diego City College where she goes every morning from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. to take English classes (where she is now) and afterwards we get some brunch and head over to Balboa Park.
I am continually amazed at how this process works, at how we always manage, and more specifically (my point is coming, I promise) how much more each day requires from Laura than it does for me. Yet she continues on, all the more detirmined. After trying her best to keep her eyes open in class and learn the difference between “to make” and “to do” – the same word in Spanish – she then has to concentrate to understand the piece descriptions in the museums. I’m a native English speaker and I often have a tough time understanding what the hell these curators and art critics are trying to say about some painting or sculpture. Then afterwards she is off to work where she has to smile big an endure the mispronunciations of “can I get a car-nay uh-sah-duh bah-ree-to please?” By the end of the day it’s 8 o’clock, she’s off work, covered with grease stains, wanting nothing more than to take a shower, thinking about how she should go to the gym, how she has that homework assignment for her English class, how she’s so tired. She goes to the computer to start on her homework, tempted to sign on to Instant Messenger to see if her friends are online.
And Laura has it ten times better than most Mexican immigrants living in the United States. She has her papers. She came aboard an airplane, not crawling through a tunnel, wading across a river, or hiding in a cramped van. She has a solid group of Mexican and American friends who are open-minded and always calling to look after her, wanting to hang out. Laura’s privileged position (as well as college education and middle class upbringing) has allowed her to assimilate more easily than many other Mexican American immigrants I know who have been here for years.
Generalizing, these are people who sacrificed nearly everything in search of a dream to save up enough money to one day return to Mexico, buy a house, and raise their children. These are people often with a respect for the United States and our relative lack of corruption who at the same time our worried about losing their own cherished culture, religion, customs, and language. Most work two – some three – jobs, paying the same taxes as we do under a social security number that is not real. In fact, it is possible that an illegal Mexican immigrant could be contributing to your social security fund right now without you ever knowing. Much of their income goes to daily expenses: rent (that many middle class, White, Americans complain about not being able to afford), utilities, and food. Some of it is sent back to their families (at times, their wives and children) and the rest is saved up, preciously, week by week, under the mattress to fulfill the dream of return.
Through all of this – many Mexican immigrants make it a high priority to assimilate as a matter of respect to the country where they are living. (and yes, as well as further their own carreer possibilities) In fact, I will ask Laura to make a comment about some of the other students in her English as a Second Language class at San Diego City College. It would be a good opportunity to see how well the translator translates from Spanish to English.
In this light, I have a tough time understanding how the majority US public – even here in “progressive California” – continue to vote against creative assimilation and multi-cultural initiatives. (see Prop. 187) Of course I am speaking generally, but day after day I am awe-strucken at the detirmination of Mexican migrants and the lengths they go to in order to assimilate in a country where they are staying only out of economic necessity.
Sabes porque me gusta trabajar en un resturant de comida mexicana? bueno la respuesta es sencilla y a la vez estupida, “DON CARLOS” (perdon por el comercial porque ni siquiera recibo alguna contribucion por la publicidad al lugar)se convierte en “la taqueria mexico centro norte americana donde los burritos son de medio metro de largo mientras la realidad mexicana es un taco de 2 centimetros con un pedazo de carne y mucha cebolla para un aroma bucal espectacular, pero que los “gringos” disfrutan y los “paisas” se cuajan”…explicado con otras palabras, es mi pueblo imaginario, ahi nada es real, la comida mexicana no es mexicana, todos los ingredientes son americanos (incluyendo chiles, tortillas, aguacate; despues de que USA bloqueo y castigo al aguacate mexicano ahora el guacamole es “guerito”) el burrito no es burrito es “buryto” el tamal no es tamal es “tamale”, la duena no es mexicana es de costa rica, no se habla espanol (a menos que seas “paisa”), las bebidas distan mucho a ser las “aguas frescas” y el trato entre empleado-dueno-cliente es muy lejano a ser como en un resturant de mexico. La mezcla de sabores (cuando el mexicano traga carne a lo wey, aki hay especialidades vegetarianas, si mi abuelita viera un tamal de “tofu” diria: “ah mijita, estos gueritos estan haciendo que se acabe el mundo”)olores, colores todo es una mezcla de culturas, de ideas, de perspectivas. En este lugar es un esfuerzo por lograr la igualdad o similitud a un tipo de comida, pero adecuada al tipo de cliente. Aqui no se es perfecto, tanto los clientes tienen una muy mala pronunciacion al pedir algun platillo en espanlo, como yo para contestarles en ingles, asi que aqui, una sonrisa es la mejor manera de decir “sorry” “lo siento”, y es descubirmiento de que la esencia del ser humano no es una lengua, no es un color, no es una pinche marca que te diga “made in USA” o “hecho en mexico”. Pero esta forma de vida la descubri al vivir contigo, donde en la soledad y en la oscuridad solo un murmullo basta para decir lo que sentimos, lo que pensamos. Yo vine aqui por encontrar un sueno que desconocia y ahora tiene nombre y hasta pecas. Es igual para los mexicanos que estan aqui, todos dicen que por una mejora de vida, pero no economica, sino interna, vienes sin saber realmente a que vienes, te quedas porque realmente sientes que es lo que quieres, como dice la cancion “nadie sabe lo que tiene hasta que lo ve perdido” aqui anoras lo que haya odiabas, aqui extranas lo que alla no veias. Pero de todas formas VIVA MEXICO CABRONES!
Oso–great post… I have been confused and angered by California’s willful ignorance of its heritage and dismissal of the Mexican sweat that continues to prop it up. I look forward to reading more from you and Laura.
This issue has caused quite a few arguments between me and some of my relatives… I just can’t get them to look beyond appearances or I’m not able to combat the simple media stereotypes or soudbite political statements… I don’t know… one thing for sure that state is changing.
Here in Lexington, Kentucky there is a big Mexican immigrant population because of the horse and farming industry, but they are invisible to the population-at-large having no power in city politics.
Did you ever get a chance to read my El Mexterminator and Cyber Vato essay?
Peace!