Читать книгу Gabi, a Girl in Pieces - Isabel Quintero - Страница 26

September 16

Today is Mexican Independence Day. While I know we don’t live in Mexico, and I am not technically Mexican, there is still a sense of pride that swells in my chest during this day. Being Mexican-American is tough sometimes. Your allegiance is always questioned. My mom constantly worries that I will be too Americana. This morning we were talking about Cindy, and my mom starting saying crazy things like, “The reason Cindy is pregnant is because she was hanging out con esa gabachilla Diana, her neighbor. Remember? That girl who got pregnant by her dad’s friend?” My response was, “Yeah, she did. That guy was super old and took advantage of her. It was totally different.” “Yeah, but remember how she was always wearing those short shorts? Offering her goodies to everyone? Parecia una hoochie.” I laughed so hard because my mom straight out said, “goodies.” And “hoochie.” She got all embarrassed and told me to hurry up and go to school. So I did. Love my mom.

The other problem with being me—and my Mexican ancestry—is that people don’t believe that I am any kind of Mexican. They always think I’m White, and it bugs the shit out of me. Not because I hate White people, but because I have to go into a history lesson every time someone questions my Mexicanness.

I told Sebastian this once and he was like, “It’s not a big deal.” It may not be a big deal to him because he is a nice Mexican brown. Or a big deal to Sandra who is perfectly dark-skinned. Her Mexicanness is never questioned. Of course. People never say racist things around them. Sandra and Sebastian carry their culture on their skin like a museum exhibit to ohhhh and ahhhhh at. People look at Sandra’s long brown hair, dark brown eyes and skin that doesn’t need sun, and they think how exotic, how very perfectly Mexican. Not too much to give discomfort—there is no accent, no rough transition from white to brown. A perfect attempt at assimilation, so her brownness can be excused.

Morena. Bonita. Preciosa. Flaca. Flaquita.

On the other hand, I have the kind of skin that is not allowed in the sun for more than fifteen minutes before turning into an overcooked lobster. Sunburn for sure each time I visit the beach. My skin is there for all the world to see and point at and judge. Guerra. Casper. Ghost. Freckle Face. Ugly. Whitey. White girl. Gringa. I’ve been called all of those names. Skin that doesn’t make me Mexican enough. Skin that always makes people say, “You’re not what a Mexican’s supposed to look like.” To which I respond, “Well, what is a Mexican supposed to look like? Am I supposed to be brown and short? Carry a leaf blower on my back? Speak with a thick accent? Say things like ‘I no spik ingles?’ Should I have dark hair and dark eyes, like my mother and grandmother?”

This skin thing always pisses me off. What I need is a nopal on my forehead to let the world know about my roots. One of those flat cactus plants that my grandpa grew behind his house before he died—nopal en la frente. Yup. That would solve all my problems. It would say, “This lightskinned White-looking young lady is of Mexican descent. Really she is. Yes, she speaks Spanish. And English too. She is a sight to see, folks, a real marvel. (Unless you travel to Mexico where there are lots more like her.)” The nopal would solve those problems.

And besides the whole skin situation to annoy me, there are people going around school in sombreros and mustaches and acting like idiots. Apparently along with being brown, we all have mustaches.

At lunch time there were activities for us to participate in, but we skipped out on them because we had heard they were going to be really lame like a churro-eating contest and a guess-that-Spanish-word and the ever popular Mexican Independence Day game—pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. After lunch was my poetry class, which is not as bad as I thought. Today we actually began writing poems. Ms. Abernard had us write haikus (a Japanese style of poetry that has 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second line, and 5 in the last line). Here is a sad one that I just wrote:

Joshua Moore is gone

My heart in seven pieces

I am not lucky