No Labels

Tomatillo enchiladas con frijoles are my favorite food-hands down. I speak Spanish to Diego and dream of taking him to Cuernavaca, Morelos to visit his great-grandfather. One day we will visit Cerritos, San Luis Potosi to meet Jose’s cousins, tias y tios. We dance to Banda Machos and Sonora Santanera and rock to Mana and Paulina Rubio. I identify as a Mexican girl wherever I go. But sometimes, I get a little reminder that I am more than just that. This is a conversation I participated in last Thursday in photography class with 5 people during our coffee brake:

“The international schools in Singapore are so expensive.”

“They really haven’t suffered the economic crisis.”

“Schools in Tokyo are much more expensive. But really, they are all fantastic and so worth it.”

“People will pay for anything. Expats feel they deserve the best.”

“Why shouldn’t they? They work hard and are away from home. It’s difficult to send your kids to local schools when you don’t know the system.”

“It sends the wrong message, having the best when you are away from your country. Americans are the worst. They want the best of everything.”

Um, excuse me?! Did I just hear that? Stereotyping? Generalizing? My blood boiled. The claws were out! Americans are the worst?? People laughed nervously. Some people even said, “Oooh. Ouch. You can’t go there.” I took out my big round hoops from my ears and put on my 5 gold rings on my fingers. I was going to whoop some ass!!!

No. The girl from Little Village (24th and Drake to be exact and then throw in a little Cicero and well… I could have whooped some ass). But I didn’t. Instead, calmly and maturely I explained to this nice European woman that some people, like me, like my husband, grew up in a very unsafe area in the States, went through the worst public school system in America and now that we have choices for our son, we are going to give him what we think is best-when we can.

The woman replied that playgrounds are designed to prevent accidents and not allowing kids to make mistakes, that we don’t let kids run out on the street, that Americans have brought fear by suing everyone and everything. It was clear that we were having two different conversations and that we were going off on a tangent (this happens when you get a heated and passionate debate). I ended by saying that this American was dodging bullets and gangs growing up, was looking for teachers that could relate and inspire and role models to look up to. Not all Americans are the same. We have different hopes and dreams for our kids. We all have a different experience.

Whatever one is looking for doesn’t matter to me. What bugged me was that she singled me out in a class full of British, Singaporean, South African and Asian people. I clearly have an American accent. I never deny that I was born and raised in Chicago by Mexican parents so I was just floored and insulted that she would make a comment, today in age about a country, a people, a race in a class room full of educated adults. The teacher nervously but abruptlly stopped the conversation and we went on to learn about ISO and white balance.

I love that I can take a photography course in Asia. I love hot dogs and apple pie. I want to take Diego down Route 66 and show him the best of America. I want to go back to New York City one day and live side by side with the Koreans, Jews, Italian, Blacks and Puerto Ricans. We bounce to hip hop and house music, play baseball and identify as Americans wherever we go.

We must take opportunities and participate in discussions that can teach us different little things. The woman never said “goodbye” cuando me despedi. So I clearly know she doesn’t want to be my friend. And that’s okay. I like to think that we can learn from situations like this. As much as I am Mexican, I am American. And even if don’t identify as American as quickly as I do to my Mexicanismo, I am forever grateful and the first to defend my American ways.