My/Our Story
When I was a small child, I would listen to and watch the adults around me. I was the youngest of eleven children, so I got ordered around and at times fussed over. I experienced well-meaning interactions intended to “help” me or correct my behavior. I had to learn not to say too much.
Prevailing adult attitudes at the time could be summed up as “children should be seen but not necessarily heard.” I’d get “the talk” every now and then, starting with something like, “When I was your age, I could never have gotten away with that.”
At our home, anything of importance was communicated in Spanish. Our parents and their peers had been told that their children would do better in school if the parents would speak only English to them. However, our parents, uncles, and aunts always used Spanish with each other and when they were correcting or scolding us. If they had something of importance to tell us, it was never in English. My grandmother refused to speak English. She always assumed that we understood what she was saying. I did.
Affection was communicated with sweet, caring sounds and words—mijo became mijito; hija became mijita. Tasty dishes had Spanish or Indigenous names, like calabacitas (squash), frijoles or frijolitos (beans), verdolagas and chaquehue (no English translation). Tamales and tortillas were made by hand for every meal.
Socializing with peers, and adult conversations with lots of jokes and laughter, did not include much English. (With time, English became more common.) Much of what people said centered on the daily irony of our individual and collective situations. I realize now that such gatherings provided some reprieve from the day-to-day experiences. It was a chance to laugh while being our multicultural selves and sharing our experiences. Mostly those experiences were private and ignored by a society that belittled our backgrounds and shamed us, as Mexicans who resided in the United States. We were always portrayed as unsophisticated, backward, and less than desirable.
In those days—the 1950s and ’60s—in the United States, everyone seemed to be poor and/or working class.
To “be” or “exist” meant having to “melt” ourselves into a lifestyle that didn’t acknowledge anything about our past or acknowledge the daily onslaughts of racism as something systematic. We knew the irony of living within two worlds. Basically, we ignored what was required of us until we had to change our “ways of behavior.”
We had to become more and more “private” about who we were while learning to navigate multiple worlds. This also meant learning to “pretend.”
I did not understand at the time that there was a huge push to sell us the idea that the free enterprise system was the best possible way of life for us all. The system was most harsh on those who could not learn to navigate both worlds.
Racism was endemic when we were too different. I was fortunate because I didn’t speak with an accent and my skin wasn’t dark brown or red year around. I wasn’t Black or too Indigenous in my appearance. I didn’t understand the racism that was built into what was happening to us and everyone around us.
My father would put his head down when talking to white people. He’d always listen respectfully, even when not being treated with respect. Some situations were worse than others. From time to time someone might refer to him as “Poncho” or use his first name, Louie, even if they were younger. Very disrespectful. Dad worked hard every day. He could speak English. He was fortunate to have learned to read and write. Reading was a source of great pride for him.
I’d love to hear your story and your family’s story.
Siempre tu amigo y Co-escucha en el camino hacia la liberación humana, (“Always your friend and Co-Counselor on the path to human liberation,”)
USA
Reprinted from the RC e-mail discussion list for leaders of Chicanos/as
(Present Time 205, October 2021)