my brother is a coconut
Yes, I know.
It's not a helping thing to say, "coconut." It's not helping to judge him like that, and who, by the way, appointed me arbiter of all that is Mexican? No one, that's who. I'm no one to judge. And it's not like I don't understand his dilemma and his choices and how that must be so hard, so conflicted for him. I do. I get it. I know what he chose and even why he did, and how he went about it. I can parse it and analyze the issues of race and class and assimilation and the prerogatives of privilege. I can see how he convinced himself to be only one thing instead of many.
But, damn it. He's still a goddamned coconut.
He's the one who actively chose not to teach his children Spanish. The one who has told them, "You're not Mexican except on your college applications. When anyone asks, you're Irish."
He's the one who made the conscious decision to separate his family in two. The one I've seen put on a mantle of privilege based on judging where he came from as less than. The one who really does think that when white people see his Irish wife and his light-skinned kids, they'll say "we always knew you weren't really Mexican--just look at your kids!" The one who firmly believes that by marrying white, he's married up, and is a better person for it. The one who is ashamed that our parents worked in the fields. The one that is ashamed to be Mexican.
And yet...
He's the one of us my siblings who most misses the holiday traditions we left when our mom changed faiths. The one who listens to Vicente Fernández songs on the stereo when he's driving alone. The one who asks our mom to make chilaquiles every time he visits. The one who got the brunt of the anti-Mexican sentiment at school in the late 70s and early 80s, after the years of Chicano pride that carried our sisters through safely and before the idea of acculturation instead of assimilation was embraced. The one who felt our father's death at the time when he was most frangible and had the least resources to cope with it, and wound up rudderless.
And yet...
He's the one that seized onto a surrogate family in his best friend's well-to-do Mexican parents when he went to college as the way to be Mexican and not be so ashamed of it. He's the one who still can't see the amazing story of his mother and what she did and how she sacrificed to afford him the opportunity to have choices she never could, including to be ungrateful. He's the one who still wishes he were white.
Which is why he's a coconut. Because if he had his way, he would be white, instead of what he is. Because not only has his mind been colonized by oppression--which is inescapable in this society of ours, and thus, forgivable--but because has become a willing participant in his colonization, and because he knows better.
And so...
Here I sit, in judgment. Unfairly, perhaps, because I was afforded the sense of self and dignity in my heritage that he lacked. Because I learned that I didn't have to give up my mexicanidad in order to be American, that I could be--that I was--many things, and that it was a strength to be. Because I had the experience of being the academic standard until I got to college, so I never had anyone saying that I would achieve less because I was not white. Because I had the privilege of the assumption of success, and I know that he did not. So it isn't fair to judge him so harshly for failing to have the kind of strength that I feel he should have had... except that I do.
I do judge him.
I can understand the why and the where and how of it, but I can't forgive him his choice.
Not when I have to have those hard conversations with my mother about why he keeps away so much, or doesn't bring the kids to see her, or why they don't speak Spanish and barely know her. Not when my siblings and cousins also came through the crucible of racism as finer steel. Not when he makes jokes about it all and cynically plans on how to be Mexican, as we say in Spanish, cuando le conviene--when it's convenient for him. Not when the consequences of his choice hurt our family and me. Not when his choice comes from shame, and grief, and fear, and nowhere in it lies truth. Not when he could make a better choice that would let him be whole and have pride in who he is and where he comes from.
And so...
My brother is a coconut.
Yes, I know. It's not a helping thing to say, save that it's the truth and by telling it, I'm trying to heal.
Addendum: Clearly, I'm sorting through some issues here. It's just that it's very hard to see someone you love reject an aspect of themselves that you celebrate, that is integral, that by rejecting, compromises the structure who they are and by doing so, reinforces all those that would stand against you. I feel betrayed by my brother's choices, because I feel they betray his self, and because I see how they hurt our mother. (And have we not already established at length that I am a mama's boy?)
It's not a helping thing to say, "coconut." It's not helping to judge him like that, and who, by the way, appointed me arbiter of all that is Mexican? No one, that's who. I'm no one to judge. And it's not like I don't understand his dilemma and his choices and how that must be so hard, so conflicted for him. I do. I get it. I know what he chose and even why he did, and how he went about it. I can parse it and analyze the issues of race and class and assimilation and the prerogatives of privilege. I can see how he convinced himself to be only one thing instead of many.
But, damn it. He's still a goddamned coconut.
He's the one who actively chose not to teach his children Spanish. The one who has told them, "You're not Mexican except on your college applications. When anyone asks, you're Irish."
He's the one who made the conscious decision to separate his family in two. The one I've seen put on a mantle of privilege based on judging where he came from as less than. The one who really does think that when white people see his Irish wife and his light-skinned kids, they'll say "we always knew you weren't really Mexican--just look at your kids!" The one who firmly believes that by marrying white, he's married up, and is a better person for it. The one who is ashamed that our parents worked in the fields. The one that is ashamed to be Mexican.
And yet...
He's the one of us my siblings who most misses the holiday traditions we left when our mom changed faiths. The one who listens to Vicente Fernández songs on the stereo when he's driving alone. The one who asks our mom to make chilaquiles every time he visits. The one who got the brunt of the anti-Mexican sentiment at school in the late 70s and early 80s, after the years of Chicano pride that carried our sisters through safely and before the idea of acculturation instead of assimilation was embraced. The one who felt our father's death at the time when he was most frangible and had the least resources to cope with it, and wound up rudderless.
And yet...
He's the one that seized onto a surrogate family in his best friend's well-to-do Mexican parents when he went to college as the way to be Mexican and not be so ashamed of it. He's the one who still can't see the amazing story of his mother and what she did and how she sacrificed to afford him the opportunity to have choices she never could, including to be ungrateful. He's the one who still wishes he were white.
Which is why he's a coconut. Because if he had his way, he would be white, instead of what he is. Because not only has his mind been colonized by oppression--which is inescapable in this society of ours, and thus, forgivable--but because has become a willing participant in his colonization, and because he knows better.
And so...
Here I sit, in judgment. Unfairly, perhaps, because I was afforded the sense of self and dignity in my heritage that he lacked. Because I learned that I didn't have to give up my mexicanidad in order to be American, that I could be--that I was--many things, and that it was a strength to be. Because I had the experience of being the academic standard until I got to college, so I never had anyone saying that I would achieve less because I was not white. Because I had the privilege of the assumption of success, and I know that he did not. So it isn't fair to judge him so harshly for failing to have the kind of strength that I feel he should have had... except that I do.
I do judge him.
I can understand the why and the where and how of it, but I can't forgive him his choice.
Not when I have to have those hard conversations with my mother about why he keeps away so much, or doesn't bring the kids to see her, or why they don't speak Spanish and barely know her. Not when my siblings and cousins also came through the crucible of racism as finer steel. Not when he makes jokes about it all and cynically plans on how to be Mexican, as we say in Spanish, cuando le conviene--when it's convenient for him. Not when the consequences of his choice hurt our family and me. Not when his choice comes from shame, and grief, and fear, and nowhere in it lies truth. Not when he could make a better choice that would let him be whole and have pride in who he is and where he comes from.
And so...
My brother is a coconut.
Yes, I know. It's not a helping thing to say, save that it's the truth and by telling it, I'm trying to heal.
Addendum: Clearly, I'm sorting through some issues here. It's just that it's very hard to see someone you love reject an aspect of themselves that you celebrate, that is integral, that by rejecting, compromises the structure who they are and by doing so, reinforces all those that would stand against you. I feel betrayed by my brother's choices, because I feel they betray his self, and because I see how they hurt our mother. (And have we not already established at length that I am a mama's boy?)