soapboxdiner

Soy una Americana

Here's a funny little parallel tangent for your amusement this evening. Mr. Unclaimed wrote a peice this evening regarding the matter of nationality. It appears that not all English folk enjoy being labeled British. Who knew? I for one could not tell you the difference, other than dubiously inferring that as Englishmen, their history and so forth lends to a distinction. What that distinction is, I don't know. Perhaps it has to do with historical national boundaries and the watering down of acclaim that is England's due.

Maybe he'll let me know.

Anyway, here's the parallel. You see, I am what some might consider a mongrel. A racial hybrid. Yes, my mother's family is mostly German, English, and Dutch. My father's lineage is German and some kind of Hispanic; though I did not learn which specific form of Hispanic until the year 2000, when my alcoholic father decided he'd like a relationship with his children and so sent us all letters saying, "Hi, it's been 13 years since I've contacted you kids, but I want to be your daddy."

Right. Put the scotch down, dad. When you sober up, you'll come to your senses. Trust me.

When I was 12, Sis, Bro and I travelled down from Montana to New Mexico to summer with dad and his folks. I'd like to say that it was a pleasant experience, but I think more it was a learning one. It was the first time I'd spent a significant amount of time with dad in six years and the only time I really I really got to know my grandparents or my aunt. It was a time of trips to the flea market (from which a favorite family catch phrase was dubbed, "It's banana nut bread. It gots bananas and nuts in it." -- You'd really have had to be there to enjoy this.); rolling doobies in the Cadillac - the aunt, not me; and roasting chilis and patting out homemade tortillas with grandma.

But that's mostly beside the point.

The point is, down in Albuquerque, you really have to watch what you call a person. They are not Spanish down New Mexico way, they are wholy and undeniably Mexican. And thems, they be distinctions worth fighting over. With razors.

All through my childhood, we'd talk to one relation and hear, "We're Spanish." This with an air of superiority voiced in tone and inflection. Of course we're Spanish. We're SBDs.

When talking to other relations, we were Mexican. We were keeping it real here. No high horses. No airs. Pass the pisole, mija.

And there, you see, is the trouble. What exactly is my heritage? Grandma and Grandpa met in Europe during the time of WWII. Several times in her life she returned. We'd been told it was to visit her family.

But do Spaniards make tamales? Do they relish hominy and tripe served in a watery broth? I wouldn't think so. But how was I to know - I was a simple Montanan girl raised by her white mama in a trailer park. It wasn't like I could run down the street to ask mi abuelita; she lived on the polar opposite end of the country. Couldn't trust the word of the family; their answers depended wholy on their economic stations.

Finally, in 2000, my father called me. And so I asked, "Dad, what was grandma's name? Where did she really come from?"

And the shroud of mystery was finally lifted. It seems that my grandmother was Delphina, and her family moved to the Utah, USA when she was a child. They came from Mexico.

And so, there you have it. I'm a white girl who is one-quarter Mexican, but who is informed by every hispanic person she meets, "Es una Mexicana."

Funny though, did you know that in the state of Washington, if you are 1/4 hispanic on your mother's side, you are considered white, but if you are 1/4 hispanic on your father's side, you are recognized as hispanic?

Load of bull. A quarter is a quarter, dudes. And I think I'll stick to what I know if it's all the same to you.

5:50 pm - 01.03.03
previous | next

Home | Archives | Profile | Notes | DiaryLand | Random Entry