El Negrito, El Negro, y Nigga
I very much lament that I haven’t kept better (any) record or documented any of the almost constant observations parading through my consciousness over the last two years. Comparisons shuffle through the mind of an expatriate like the cars racing to and fro in Frogger. Doubtless, I have already lost to the whims of time countless moments that, while remarkable to a younger me and to possibly some readers, may no longer even register a noteworthy blip. What a shame. At least there may be time yet to salvage a few of the more repetitious offenders. Some things, it seems, will always surprise me.
This entry mandates a precursor: Mexicans don’t experience as we that unbearable shame over uncontrollable (or nearly so) physical traits that drive so many Americans to quietude, depression, or simply quit them of the activities enjoyed by so many of their more confident compatriots. I would never say they don’t have self-esteem issues or any of the other psychiatric pleasures of a selfish and judgmental society. It just doesn’t seem to shame them into submission. Oh, of course, I can only speak in generalities here, but if the evidence will chance to come forth…
America is fat, obese. We know this. Mexico is fat too, for those unaware. Set me down in any park, in any mall, hell, on any street corner and ask me to count the more overweight among us. I venture that Juarez and 16 de Septiembre would run pretty even with the corner of Vine and Sixth. Yet, they don’t really compete with our heavyweights. They may have cows, but we’ve got elephants. I’m from the Midwest. Few things startle me more when I go back than the tremendous size of it all, people unexcepted.
So, recently, some class topic or another led me to comment on the mind-boggling obesity of my homeland. To my disbelief, my student looked back at me with what I will only describe as disbelief. Strange. I thought everyone knew that about us. Fat Americans. Stupid Americans. Yes. Yes. Why the confusion?
He explained. There are many Americans in Cancún and Puerto Vallarta. They don’t seem to be the lumbering folk I described. Hmm. I groped around in my head for an explanation. My head blushed. Several possible reasons fell out. People that go to Cancún are richer, younger, and more into beaches? The overweight vacationers aren’t actually sunbathing? You know, if I’m obese, I’m probably not going to jet off to Cancún wetting myself in giddy anticipation. I’ll go to Paris or Buenos Aires instead, thank you. Blank look from the student. Okay, well, he’s not stupid, so what’s going on? Maybe a clarification is in order? Well, you know, why would I want to spend my very grudgingly bestowed vacation in paradise with a bunch of underwear models where I might have to take off my shirt-where bratty little twerps can giggle and try to count the folds before I turn over again?
Another round of disbelief rocking me not at all in my chair. This was getting old and confusing. Like an analogue clock. He asked if this would actually stop anyone from going to the beach. Oh yes. What, you don’t think potential foreign travelers might consider that almost complete personal humiliation at the comparisons they would no doubt-perhaps rightly-imagine passing through the minds of every smugly stunning sunglassed blond idiot there on the blazing white sand. You don’t think they’d consider that? Shrug. Smiling, shaking head. Amazing.
When I contemplate it, though, it fits. The beach is a Mexican institution. I would say most of the country probably lives within a weekend trip to sand and surf. So, perhaps they don’t hold it on such a pedestal of ultimate tropical extravagance as someone from, say, Cincinnati might. Pair that with general fashion differences, and things converge into clearer focus. Much to the shrinking dismay of my…heart… I’ve almost acclimatized to the idea of women in shirts that rather fashionably advertize not just one, but multiple rolls of undulating chub. It’s a spectacular effect as they wobble down the street, belly shaking out warnings to those ahead before rolling against itself and maybe hiking that frightened shirt up one more centimeter. I’ve almost forgotten at this point that they make large women’s sizes too, and that grandmothers should never have cleavage.
Okay, again, I’m absolutely not describing everyone, but there’s enough evidence of a cultural element here that doesn’t jive with mine. Add to that the numerous times I’ve been called güero, ‘whitey or light-colored,’ to my face by friends and strangers alike, or heard the pet-name gordo, ‘fat, or fatty probably in this case,’ that many here reserve for his or her spouse. (For a thrill stateside sometime, take two Sudafeds and a Redbull and try calling your wife fat.) It’s clear in any case that to simply mention an obvious physical characteristic in Mexico-even to a stranger-doesn’t carry the same implications of dehumanizing categorization it usually does north of the boarder. Suddenly, my student’s confusion makes sense.
Throw in the almost complete racial homogeny of most of the country, it’s no great wonder that Mexicans, for the most part, don’t really ‘get’ the whole black/white thing we have going on stateside. Yes, Mexico has racism. Do you look really dark and native? Chances are considerably higher you’re also poor. Are you more of a Spanish-looking güero? There’s a better chance you went to college, go to fresa nightclubs, and hire one of those Indian-looking people to clean your house.
Still, despite this de facto Mexican racism, I’m not really aware of any large hierarchical organizations officially founded for the express purpose of hating other races. I’m not sure their parents hold memories of entire races of people being segregated and denied basic rights by their government (not that all Mexican history is devoid of such delights). I just don’t get the impression they grow up walking on eggshells around race issues as I certainly did. Thanks, ‘90s.
Probably once or twice a year I’m forced to deal with that dreaded juggernaut of all forbidden words-that which can send roomfuls of Americans into bewildered social confusion. When the wrong person drops it in the wrong setting, it’s like that carnival game with the big watertank and the baseball, and the cold little gong’s just struck, and now we’re all hovering a resigned and terrified moment above that impending pit. Yes, when a student, typically a polite young professional in a cultural discussion of rap music or Denzel’s Oscar asks, “He’s a nigger?” Obviously, they are testing the word. They know it’s slang. Perhaps they’ve even heard it before to comedic effect, because they’re usually amused by seeing me there, hovering above the water for a moment. Then it inevitably takes me five to ten minutes to get them to understand-even if they can’t quite get it themselves-at least how seriously other people might take that kind of irreverence.
Now, I would be a self-aggrandizing tool if I didn’t now take a respite to admit that, yes, I usually have a laugh over the humor of the situation later, with friends. I have laughed at race jokes. I like Chappelle as much as the next guy if he really loves him. So, where do I get on my high horse? I don’t know but to say that when I and many Americans cackle over a racially charged joke, it’s usually either an inane observation of a sub-cultural difference, or it’s so horrendously bigoted that we laugh at the absurdity (and tragedy) of anyone who might actually believe it. Mexicans (again, por lo mejor) just don’t have the experience to get to that level.
Which brings me to El Negrito, El Negro, and Nigga.
In vending machines and convenience stores across Guadalajara, if not the whole country, it’s easy to find a chocolate snack cake called El Negrito, ‘the little black,’ or ‘the black kid.’ I realize that, yes, the actual word for ‘black’ in Spanish is ‘negro.’ Does that excuse the artwork? I will let the picture speak the +1000 words itself.
Here also in this fine city, many times I’ve heard testified the seafood delights of El Negro. I love seafood tacos, and may find myself one day mesmerized in front of that audacious pickaninny restaurant, but I have reservations (the kind that give pause, not reduce your wait). The picture here is from the menu, but the outside of the restaurant sports the same character in great, broad strokes of paint.
Finally, we have the reggaeton artist, Nigga. This chap first came to my notice in big stark letters across a billboard with his picture and an announcement of his concert. You might want to imagine my dumbfounded face. Aw, go ahead. Throw in a spit-take. He isn’t Mexican, he’s actually Panamanian, but whatever the background, I’m fairly certain he’s not African. Purportedly, the name came from a fellow Panamanian singer who said he “sang like a black guy from Jamaica.”* When this marvel decided to release his album in the US, it’s no wonder it came out under the name DJ Flex instead. At least it’s equally daft, if innocuous.
I realize I’ve cast a rather wide and imprecise net over the racism separating two countries. A more exhaustive study I would surely welcome reading sometime. I only base these observations on my experiences in Mexico and my conversations mostly with middle-class people here. I do not promote one brand of racism over another. Think of it more like a smorgasbord. I’ll be happy enough simply to open some eyes to what comes to focus with a light from two sides.