Torn
Growing up I was ashamed of being Hispanic. I learned Spanish before I learned English and my accent clearly comes out when I talk. I don't really notice it, but I know other people do. I'm constantly asked "where are you from?" to which I answer "the United States." Then the person asking usually follows that up with "no, where are you from originally?" I tell them I was born in San Antonio, but I really want to say something smartass and tell them I came from a stork. A lot of people seem to find it hard to believe that I'm American. No, I'm not a native New Yorker, but plenty of people who live there aren't.
I remember when I was a kid this little blond haired girl came up to me during recess and asked me bluntly if I was Mexican. My family is Chilean, so I said no. She wrinkled her nose and told me that I looked and talked like a Mexican so she didn't believe me. That Friday my class had a show and tell about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I'd always wanted to write comic books, even at that age, so I brought in some of the favorites in my collection, eagerly displaying the bright reds of the Flash and the contrasting greens of the Hulk, saying that I would be making books like that one day, I was so proud.
After class the same girl marched up to me, the same way she had done on the playground and told me that I should have brought in a mop, because her daddy said that all Mexicans are good for is cleaning floors. I've always hated confrontation, and the only response I could think of at the time was "Chilean, I'm Chilean," spoken quietly and mostly to my feet. I can still picture that moment so clearly in my head. I stayed in that same position, just staying at the ground for a long while, and I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to be something so dirty and degrading as being Latino.
I tried so many things hoping it would make me white. I replied in English whenever my parents spoke to me, I found new stations on the radio. I stopped watching Plaza Sesamo in favor of the Brady Bunch. To me, it was a real family that everyone seemed to like, so I tried to be like them. I traded my soccer ball for a football and immediately regretted it. I was so clumsy with the football, it didn't feel right in my hands and I could never throw it in more than an awkward wobble. Kicking it wasn't much better. We didn't own a tee, so I would try to make a hole in the ground with my foot like I had seen on tv and let the ball stand in there. I never got it to work, the ball always fell down. I understood the game and liked it well enough, but soccer just seemed to make so much more sense to me, but of course I didn't want to admit it. That would make me different, weird.
The next week in school I saw fliers posted advertising a recreational co-ed soccer league for elementary school students. I wanted to join so badly, but I told myself I couldn't. Soccer was for outsiders, for people too stupid to do anything better with their time.
I tried and tried to be good at football. Every night after dinner I would go outside and practice throwing the ball. I never got any better. I wish I hadn't traded what I had. One day after I got picked up from school, Dad drove me to a local community center instead of going home. Completely confused, I asked him why we weren't going home, to which he replied that we were going to sign me up for the soccer league. Apparently I had made up for not playing it with the sheer amount of times I talked about it. Grinning from ear to ear I told him that he was the best dad in the world. That night to celebrate my first venture into organized sports we had empanadas for dinner at my request. I had tried abandoning who I was, but it didn't work, and I'm glad it didn't. I can still be American without neglecting my heritage, and I learned a long time ago that Mexican doesn't equal janitor. I'm Chilean, yeah, and I'm proud of it, but you can't define a person entirely based on where they come from. Just look at some of my cousins, they're a bunch of assholes. Now I'm pursuing a career that I love, that I've always wanted ever since that show and tell. I remember that girl said that she wanted to be a ballerina. The last I heard, she's now working as a very different kind of dancer.
I love karma.
I remember when I was a kid this little blond haired girl came up to me during recess and asked me bluntly if I was Mexican. My family is Chilean, so I said no. She wrinkled her nose and told me that I looked and talked like a Mexican so she didn't believe me. That Friday my class had a show and tell about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I'd always wanted to write comic books, even at that age, so I brought in some of the favorites in my collection, eagerly displaying the bright reds of the Flash and the contrasting greens of the Hulk, saying that I would be making books like that one day, I was so proud.
After class the same girl marched up to me, the same way she had done on the playground and told me that I should have brought in a mop, because her daddy said that all Mexicans are good for is cleaning floors. I've always hated confrontation, and the only response I could think of at the time was "Chilean, I'm Chilean," spoken quietly and mostly to my feet. I can still picture that moment so clearly in my head. I stayed in that same position, just staying at the ground for a long while, and I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to be something so dirty and degrading as being Latino.
I tried so many things hoping it would make me white. I replied in English whenever my parents spoke to me, I found new stations on the radio. I stopped watching Plaza Sesamo in favor of the Brady Bunch. To me, it was a real family that everyone seemed to like, so I tried to be like them. I traded my soccer ball for a football and immediately regretted it. I was so clumsy with the football, it didn't feel right in my hands and I could never throw it in more than an awkward wobble. Kicking it wasn't much better. We didn't own a tee, so I would try to make a hole in the ground with my foot like I had seen on tv and let the ball stand in there. I never got it to work, the ball always fell down. I understood the game and liked it well enough, but soccer just seemed to make so much more sense to me, but of course I didn't want to admit it. That would make me different, weird.
The next week in school I saw fliers posted advertising a recreational co-ed soccer league for elementary school students. I wanted to join so badly, but I told myself I couldn't. Soccer was for outsiders, for people too stupid to do anything better with their time.
I tried and tried to be good at football. Every night after dinner I would go outside and practice throwing the ball. I never got any better. I wish I hadn't traded what I had. One day after I got picked up from school, Dad drove me to a local community center instead of going home. Completely confused, I asked him why we weren't going home, to which he replied that we were going to sign me up for the soccer league. Apparently I had made up for not playing it with the sheer amount of times I talked about it. Grinning from ear to ear I told him that he was the best dad in the world. That night to celebrate my first venture into organized sports we had empanadas for dinner at my request. I had tried abandoning who I was, but it didn't work, and I'm glad it didn't. I can still be American without neglecting my heritage, and I learned a long time ago that Mexican doesn't equal janitor. I'm Chilean, yeah, and I'm proud of it, but you can't define a person entirely based on where they come from. Just look at some of my cousins, they're a bunch of assholes. Now I'm pursuing a career that I love, that I've always wanted ever since that show and tell. I remember that girl said that she wanted to be a ballerina. The last I heard, she's now working as a very different kind of dancer.
I love karma.