Growing Up Finnican:Part I
I grew up in Livonia, MI, which despite being so close to Detroit was 95.45% white according to the 2000 US Census Bureau. During the time I was growing up in Livonia, it was considered the whitest city in the nation. I'm pretty white. I have blond hair and blue eyes, but these things have long hid a secret of mine. I'm a quarter Mexican. Like most modern Americans, I come from a salad bowl of cultures. My paternal side is pretty straight forward. The Waldo's can trace themselves back in America to just after the pilgrims arrived. Translation: The Waldo's are WASPs... traditional white as it gets. My mother is half Finnish and half Mexican. This created somewhat of a confusing childhood for me, especially living in a city like Livonia.
Growing up, Mom always taught me to be proud of my ethnicity. She would offer random facts about the Aztecs, and point out Latina actresses. Every Christmas we broke a piñata, and one of my favorite meals is tamales. She always made sure I knew that I wasn't just white. I was special because I was part Latina. So, when I met my first Mexican outside of family in seventh grade, it was only natural that I wanted to be his friend. His last name was Fuentes, and the only difference between us was that he actually appeared Mexican. I wanted to relate to somebody. I wanted to bond about being Latino with somebody other than family. I finally gained enough courage to approach him. "Your last name is Fuentes, right?" I asked, catching up to him between classes.
He stiffened a little. "Yeah, so what?"
"You're Mexican then?"
"What of it?" He sounded defensive and I couldn't understand why.
"Well, I'm Mexican too. I thought it was cool that we both were."
"You're not Mexican," he said.
"Yes I am, I swear. My mom's maiden name was Lopez!"
"You don't look Mexican."
"I'm a quarter Mexican."
The next words that came out of his mouth destroyed any hopes I had of friendship. "That ain't Mexican. Leave me alone."
This left me in a stupor... if I wasn't Mexican, and I wasn't just white... what was I? A few weeks later I took my first major standardized test for the state. There were bubbles to fill in for ethnicity. I struggled to find the proper bubble to color, but was stuck between "Caucasion, not of Hispanic descent" and "Hispanic", because either bubble would be a lie. I settled with "other."
In high school I took Spanish, where kids made fun of Mexicans when the teacher wasn't in the room. Mexicans were known as either lazy drunks, or as illegal immigrants who were taking jobs from Americans. This seemed wrong to me. My Grandpapa was one of the hardest working people I knew, and he'd been an American citizen all his life. Whenever my classmates made fun of lazy beaners, I slunk back in my chair and pretended I was invisible, and in a way I was. I was an undercover Latina.
After my heritage became a joke, it became a party game for me. I would have people guess my ethnicity. Nobody ever guessed correctly, and the losers to my game would argue in disbelief just like Mr. Fuentes did in 7th grade. The game made me feel better about myself because it was I game I always won. Being Mexican did make me special because being Mexican made me different. I was determined to continue my studies in Spanish class to impress Grandpapa.
"Hola," I said to Grandpapa with a proud smile. Grandpapa's grin was longer than the Grand Canyon. "Hola," he answered back. I tested my waters, starting off with addressing him as abuelo. He didn't seem to respond. As an experiment, I proceeded to tell my grandfather that I had a burning cat in my pants. He only acknowledged that I was speaking Spanish and seemed proud. My Mexican grandfather did not speak Spanish. How could this be? After all these years of telling me to be proud to be Mexican, he couldn't even speak the language? For the time being I wrote him off as a hypocrite, but little did I know, he had a very good reason for not understanding me.
Growing up, Mom always taught me to be proud of my ethnicity. She would offer random facts about the Aztecs, and point out Latina actresses. Every Christmas we broke a piñata, and one of my favorite meals is tamales. She always made sure I knew that I wasn't just white. I was special because I was part Latina. So, when I met my first Mexican outside of family in seventh grade, it was only natural that I wanted to be his friend. His last name was Fuentes, and the only difference between us was that he actually appeared Mexican. I wanted to relate to somebody. I wanted to bond about being Latino with somebody other than family. I finally gained enough courage to approach him. "Your last name is Fuentes, right?" I asked, catching up to him between classes.
He stiffened a little. "Yeah, so what?"
"You're Mexican then?"
"What of it?" He sounded defensive and I couldn't understand why.
"Well, I'm Mexican too. I thought it was cool that we both were."
"You're not Mexican," he said.
"Yes I am, I swear. My mom's maiden name was Lopez!"
"You don't look Mexican."
"I'm a quarter Mexican."
The next words that came out of his mouth destroyed any hopes I had of friendship. "That ain't Mexican. Leave me alone."
This left me in a stupor... if I wasn't Mexican, and I wasn't just white... what was I? A few weeks later I took my first major standardized test for the state. There were bubbles to fill in for ethnicity. I struggled to find the proper bubble to color, but was stuck between "Caucasion, not of Hispanic descent" and "Hispanic", because either bubble would be a lie. I settled with "other."
In high school I took Spanish, where kids made fun of Mexicans when the teacher wasn't in the room. Mexicans were known as either lazy drunks, or as illegal immigrants who were taking jobs from Americans. This seemed wrong to me. My Grandpapa was one of the hardest working people I knew, and he'd been an American citizen all his life. Whenever my classmates made fun of lazy beaners, I slunk back in my chair and pretended I was invisible, and in a way I was. I was an undercover Latina.
After my heritage became a joke, it became a party game for me. I would have people guess my ethnicity. Nobody ever guessed correctly, and the losers to my game would argue in disbelief just like Mr. Fuentes did in 7th grade. The game made me feel better about myself because it was I game I always won. Being Mexican did make me special because being Mexican made me different. I was determined to continue my studies in Spanish class to impress Grandpapa.
"Hola," I said to Grandpapa with a proud smile. Grandpapa's grin was longer than the Grand Canyon. "Hola," he answered back. I tested my waters, starting off with addressing him as abuelo. He didn't seem to respond. As an experiment, I proceeded to tell my grandfather that I had a burning cat in my pants. He only acknowledged that I was speaking Spanish and seemed proud. My Mexican grandfather did not speak Spanish. How could this be? After all these years of telling me to be proud to be Mexican, he couldn't even speak the language? For the time being I wrote him off as a hypocrite, but little did I know, he had a very good reason for not understanding me.