Mexicatastrophy
So yesterday I unrepressed a memory I thought I had lost long ago. I don't think I've mentioned that I was homeschooled all my life. This is the story of one such everyday experience. The incredibly racist Mexican culture highschool project experience. I thought my punishment was over when I finished reading the Christian edited history of Mexico. All on my own, naturally. Which means I remember exactly nothing to this day, except what I saw from Disney's Three Amigos, starring Donald Duck. Something about some Mexico City being built on the site of a catcus, on an island, in the middle of a lake. I think a bird and snake were thrown in the folklore for a little color. When I came out of my room to hand in all of Mexico's glorious history, which was about four or five pages, mom was excited to tell me we'd surprise the family with a full Mexican experience. Presented, by me. I was immediately put on edge. Yes, she insisted, before I could wimper. She shuffled through the towel closet for a beach towel least used, cut a circle in the center and popped my head through. I felt towel resting on my back and brushed down my stomach before it dawned on me what she was up to. I instantly turned red and begged her to stop. She was angry that I was so uncooperative. What would I say to a teacher in public school if I just didn't feel like doing a project? I remember teenage years being full of parental trump cards. I just couldn't disagree. I'd never been to public school before. What would I say if my teacher came out with her summer straw hat, palm leaves jagging out all over the place, like alligator teeth. Take the 'F'? I knew that in mom language, public school meant public in general. I just wouldn't get paid if I didn't do what my boss said. And mom was boss. So she fitted her summer hat over my head. Now go get your sandals on. I told her I didn't even have a pair of sandals. I thought I had her at least there. Mexicans wear sandals, go fetch my flip-flops. So there I waited, in my room, in everyday Mexiwear, for mom to finish cooking Publix brand tacos and when she hollared everyone to dinner, I felt a strange feeling, flopping myself in front of my far bigger, older brothers and father and mousy-quiet sisters, keeping their eyes fixed to the tray of tacos in my hands, but I figured it must be a foreign feeling, like being a Mexican. I found out years later, the feeling was actually ultimate shame. Wait, my mother said. Mexican's probably don't have electricity. And she walked to and fro shutting the light switches off. I stood there, hot tacos resting against my beach towel in the dark, itchy palm leaves cruntching in protest over the slightest turn of the neck, my feet demasculized in sandals that fit mom. Till she came out centering the family with a set of candles. A few faces shown in the light, the smart ones stayed back. I put my hat next to my chair; if she protested, I could always play the hatless table etiquette trump card. I slipped her footwear off under the table. I ate my tacos and wondered how bad the world out there must be to have to be protected from it.