Narrative: Notes from Mexico
Photo: his_beautiful_girl94
THERES A LEAK in the hose, and as I water the garden, my son and the three neighbor kids are playing in the spray. Theyre all laughing so hard that only 3-year-old Chucho notices when I go behind the house and turn the water off. I return just in time to see their faces fall as the arc of water peters out.
The ginga turned it off, Chucho announces.
He doesnt pronounce his Rs yet, so it takes me a minute.
Whos a gringa? I ask, mock angry. Thats Doa Tere to you!
I know Chucho doesnt mean to hurt me, or even know what gringa means; hes only repeating what hes undoubtedly heard his parents say when Im out of earshot. But I mind that. Im their neighbor. They know my name.
I dont mind, anymore, being called La Gerathe light-skinned one. It offended me until I understood that here in Mexico, its standard to nickname peopleaffectionatelyin accordance with their physical features: the Light-skinned One, the Dark-skinned One, Light Eyes, Slanty Eyes, Curly Top, Baldy, Shorty, Fatty, Skinny. The American, P.C., pretend-not-to-notice-peoples-color-or-size standard doesnt apply here. My husbands family calls him El Negrothe Black One, the Really Dark Oneand I cant deny that, yes, Im gera; our son is gero; its true.
But I mind La Gringa. It does, I suppose, have something to do with my physical appearance in that you dont hear gringo applied to Americans of color very often. But it doesnt just mean white girl. I hear, rich white stranger from America who has no business being here. And I can deny that, or at least argue with it.
Were nowhere near being rich, though we are better off than Chuchos family, and my parents and some of our friends have the means and generosity to occasionally help us through a rough patch. White, weve established, I undeniably am, and American too. (And my son? His skin is white, but hes half Mexican; he has Zapotec blood running through his veins. Hes gero, but is he white? He has two passports. What is he?)
Its the outsider part of La Gringa that stings. I want to be home here. I do have business being here, if you consider love business. I never intended to end up here, but here I am, and Ive planted my feet, planted trees, given things up, given birth. Ive changed, or been changed.
I know, I know, despite all that, in just three years I cant expect to be an honorary nativeI cant even apply for citizenship yet, and when I can, this fall, Im not positive that I will. I just feel sad, a little, that of all the places Ive lived, the one thats turned out to be home is the one where Ill probably never really fit in.
My friends and I used to laugh at the earnestness with which our high school teachers would discuss the melting pot versus the salad bowl as a metaphor for America. And its still funnyin four years, we probably spent more class time on that debate than on any other single issue. But I do, now, appreciate that yes, the salad bowl, or melting pot, or club sandwich, or Chex Mix that is America is perhaps a goofy metaphor, but a beautiful ideal. Ideal, okay? Because I know the immigrant experience in America is not always an easy one.
I know there are worse words than gringa. That I dont know the half of it. But sometimes Id like to just be folded into the whole here. Tossed into the salad. Maybe in time.
Anyway, the neighbors got the message. They dont call me La Gringa anymore. Chuchos fourth birthday is this week, and I offered to make the cake. I cant make cake into a food-metaphor for diversity and tolerance and belonging, but I guess thats just as well. I know Im overthinking this. Time to bake, instead.
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