Growing Up along the Border
L—, reflecting on these things is a great idea. [See the article “My/Our Story,” by L—, on page 76 of Present Time No. 205.] Thank you for starting it.
There is an old Soviet film about Ukraine, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, that I like very much. That movie title always struck me as aptly describing my family’s behaviors: we had been programmed to do certain things by relatives whom we’d never met in our lifetimes, who had passed on long before, but who influenced our attitudes and outlooks in the present.
My mom was from central Mexico, my dad a border Chicano. Both were raised poor. I’m from El Paso/El Chuco (Texas, USA).
I am the firstborn of five, and the first male, and therefore enjoyed the privileges allowed to boys in a machista culture. Later, as I got older, I experienced the emotional neglect and physical abuse that boys with tough dads often have put on them. My father had been severely and continuously beaten throughout his boyhood by my grandfather, had been a youth gang leader in his barrio [neighborhood], and later, as a young adult, had been an army combatant in Korea. I’ve always known that I caught perhaps 1/1000th of the abuse he experienced growing up, if even that.
In the first years of my life, my mom, dad, and I were very close. My parents were still in love with each other and cherished me, and so we were a trio of lovebirds. I know this because there are photography studio pictures of the three of us beaming. I was a toddler who just assumed that our three-way love affair would never end.
But over time my parents grew distant and stopped being affectionate with each other. I saw it happen before my eyes. I didn’t grasp what was happening but clearly understood that something precious was ending.
In my generation, adults didn’t explain anything to children; so as I witnessed how my parents’ love seemed to die, I’m sure I was sad, confused, scared. Being Catholics, they could never divorce, but eventually they lived separate lives under the same roof.
As a result of my early disappointment, I think I concluded that everything that’s important to you, that you hold dear, sooner or later goes bad. Along with that, there was a distress recording, probably a literal recording of something spoken by the grown-ups: if you believe that relationships can stay nice and sweet, then you’re a stupid fool.
It’s a loaded set of family, cultural, and class distresses—male domination and male oppression, sexism, classism, raised-poor desperation, rigid social roles, no space to discharge about hurts.
The other distress patterns my sister and I inherited are hoarding and clutter. These came from our mom who was raised poor. In our home she kept plastic containers and boxes full of clothes and other stuff because “you know, you might need them in the future” and it would be wasteful to use them only once.
My sister and I laugh at how we find it hard to toss things out. But it’s not something funny or light. My desk is disorganized and chaotic; I can’t seem to discard papers, statements, bills. I will cling to a Kleenex until I’ve made sure I’ve used it completely—I find them all the time stored in pockets, car ashtrays, bags I use. With us, you wear an article of clothing until it is in tatters.
My sister’s hoarding now threatens her job. She is practically trapped in a house so filled with junk that she hasn’t enough room for a place to sleep, so she’s gotten in trouble for missing workdays. Our family’s distress recordings can literally wreck our livelihoods and shorten our lifespans. I know that in my case they’ve limited me in terms of career and employment choices.
One good thing about growing up along the border, particularly with my dad’s influence, is that I think I can talk to practically anyone. I feel okay schmoozing [chatting informally], especially with raised-poor people. I love the saying “Nothing human is alien to me.”
Also, I saw so much poverty and misery in my surroundings that nothing much surprises or offends me. I presently work with homeless folks who have just left prison, and even though it’s sometimes tough, my early life has given me a certain perspective about people’s struggles under capitalism.
Just the other day, a mean, surly white guy who needed to sign some paperwork glared at me and said, “Are you [Hispanic name]? You sure look like him, and I want so bad to punch him in the face!” I wasn’t rattled. I heard his pain and just pressed on. I was clear it was important that we do the paperwork to help his situation. When we finished, he apologized and shook my hand.
USA
Reprinted from the RC e-mail discussion list for leaders of Chicanos/as
(Present Time 205, October 2021)