Heinz 57

You get double the fun today: Two blog entries! Woo!

The previous post inspired this one. At book club, we were talking about what the word Chicano meant. Everyone sort of looked to me for an answer since I'm the only semi-brown person in the club. But the truth is, I didn't know. One of the members said she looked it up and the definition she found was a U.S. citizen of Mexican descent -- a Mexican-American.

Ok. I'll add it to the list.

Then we got into a conversation of whether or not that was an appropriate description of Mexican-Americans. Some people don't like it. They prefer to be called Mexican-American, or Latino/a, or Hispanic. I don't really care one way or the other, but Hispanic doesn't mean anything, so using that one equates ignorance in my book.

When people ask me what I am, my answer is "half-Mexican, half-white." (Which is a stupid way to break it down, but it's easier than the real answer.)

The real answer is this: My father's mother descends from the Spanish Canary Islanders who originally settled the city I live in (which a little Googling will help you figure out, but I'm still not telling), plus a little French mixed in there; my father's father has roots in indigenous Mexico/Central/South America... Mayan, we think; my mother's parents can trace their lineage back to England and Wales.

So, mostly European with a generous helping of Native American.

Most people like to guess what I "am" before I tell them. The majority guess Latina, which is kind of cheating since there are a damn lot of ethnicities that fall under that umbrella. But I've also heard French, Italian, Greek, and even Asian! (That last one was after I picked up some Chinese food to-go and the woman asked if I needed chopsticks. I told her that I had some at home and she literally scrutinized my face while asking if I was part-Asian.) At book club I heard Irish for the first time. So... Heinz 57 varieties, it seems.

This has been an issue for me my whole life, but especially when I was kid. My friends who were white always saw me as non-white, and my friends who were brown always saw me as white. I, like Antonio in the book, never really felt completely sure of my place on either side. Now it's not such a big deal, but it still comes up every once in a while.

I look at it differently as an adult than I did as a kid. Back then I felt watered down, for lack of a better description. Like I was only ever a half of something and not a whole. It felt like a disadvantage. Now, I feel like I have the best of both worlds. It's like I know things other people don't; like I have a secret. I don't feel any more connected than I did growing up -- there are definitely a lot of things I don't know about Mexican culture, including, sadly, a firm grasp of the language -- but I've made my peace with it.

I might just be two halves that don't really fit together, but at least they are two good, solid halves.

Book review: "Bless Me, Ultima"

Our July book club selection was the Chicano novel "Bless Me, Ultima," by Rudolfo Anaya. It's a coming of age story about a kid named Antonio who lives in New Mexico around the time of WWII.

Antonio feels pulled in different directions. His mother's family are quiet, calm people of the earth -- the Lunas. His father comes from the spirited, ambitious people of the llano -- the Marez. From the day he was born, he has been expected to choose to follow the path of one or the other. But that's not really what this story is about.

A curandera, Ultima, comes to live with his family. Antonio witnesses her magic, her connection to the world around her and her effect on the lives she touches. Seeing her work wonders in front of him calls into question Antonio's Christian belief system. But that's not really what this story is about.

There's a man, Tenorio, who hates Ultima and vows revenge on her because she believes she's responsible for the deaths of his daughters, who are found to be witches. In the end, Tenorio achieves his revenge by killing Ultima's owl -- her spirit animal -- and thereby killing Ultima. But... well, you know what I'm about to say.

All of the above things happen in the story, but what the story is really about is doubt. In this case, the doubt of the religion you grew up with, what you should be when you grow up and whether or not good can really triumph over evil. Any doubts a person has in their life could be transplanted into the story with the same result, which is this: It's ok to not know.

I appreciated this book because I myself have doubts about the faith I grew up believing in. And I think everyone has doubts about who they are supposed to be at one time or another. And with all the evil things that happen in the world, who wouldn't doubt whether or not good is fighting a losing battle?

The thing is, we probably won't get all the answers. And that's ok. Frustrating? Scary? Disappointing? Unnerving? Infuriating? Yes to all. We need to accept that we don't and won't know everything, that we don't and won't always make the best decisions. Once we do that, we can open our minds to new knowledge and experiences. And once we do THAT... well, we just might figure some stuff out, including, if nothing else, how we fit into life.

Lunch is serious business

When I was a kid, you were kind of a geek if you brought your lunch to school every day. All the "cool kids" bought theirs, and the "coolest kids" bought something horrible from the junk line like a cup of french fries or personal pepperoni pizza.

I was kind of a geek and brought my lunch every day except Fridays, when I was given a couple of bucks to buy something gross from the junk line.

I distinctly remember being in middle school and being MORTIFIED to carry a hot pink lunch bag. Because even if you were kind of a geek a brought your lunch, you weren't a SUPER GEEK if you brought your lunch in a brown paper bag. I was a super geek.

(I know this sounds completely ridiculous now, but when you're eleven years old and awkward and shy and an honor roll student, you've got to try to be cool in any way you can. Hot pink lunch bags were not that way.)

I couldn't understand why my parents didn't just spring for a package of brown paper bags. I still don't understand it, to tell you the truth. They're like $1! A very very small price to pay for your child's social well-being, I think.

Anyway.

Things were about the same in high school (minus the hot pink lunch bag. I started carrying these re-usable plastic bags that were much less obvious.) Then the most wonderful of days came when I was a senior and allowed to leave school for lunch. Most of the time I went home and ate a sandwich and watched "Days of Our Lives," but sometimes I'd go out with my friends.

Now that I'm an adult, I can look back on things that used to be a big deal and see that they really weren't. Everything seems super important while it's happening, I guess. Also, now that I'm an adult, I appreciate the financial responsibility of bringing a lunch from home every day (except Fridays, which are still reserved for eating out.)

And, finally, now that I'm an adult, I can appreciate a nice lunch bag. I bought one at Target just this week. It has butterflies on it. Butterflies are my favorite. It's pretty and sturdy and stands out in the office refrigerator among the various plastic grocery bags holding others' lunches. It is awesome.



I can't go back in time and assure my eleven-year-old self that the world really isn't going to end because she's carrying a hot pink lunch bag, but I can say that the eleven-year-old inside me is a bit ashamed of herself. She loves this lunch bag, however, and that makes her feel better.

Next up: A thermos!

Happy Anniversary!

Yes, it's the 4th of July. Our nation's birthday. But, more significantly to me, the anniversary of my grandparents' first date. (This year marks the 67th anniversary.)

Want to hear the story?

Warning: You will melt, be incredibly happy and then want to blow your brains out, all at the same time. (Actually, that could just be me. Hmmm.)

My grandparents grew up in a little town called Bartlett, TX that sits northeast of Austin. When they were kids, the place was hopping. Because of WWII, a lot of people left and never came back. Now it's basically a ghost town. Very very sad.

Anyway, they grew up together and it was one of those everybody knows everybody situations. My grandpa asked my grandma out many times, but she always told him no. He was a "bad boy," see. Always making trouble. And, frankly, she was a bit afraid of him.

Well one day a big group of friends all went out together, including my grandparents. My grandma decided that my grandpa wasn't so bad after all, and that if he asked her out again, she would say yes.

He did, and she did.

He borrowed his sister's car and drove my grandma to a neighboring town to see some 4th of July fireworks. Alas, the weather didn't realize this was a first date night, so it rained. As they were driving back to Bartlett, my grandparents decided they weren't quite ready for the evening to be over.

So what did they do?

They pulled over to the side of the road, turned up the car radio as loud as it would go and danced in the street in the rain.

*pause for reaction*

I know.

They got married a few months later. And the rest, as they say, is history. Roll credits.

Can you believe it? The romance! Where is that romance nowadays? Where, I say??? At least there's comfort in knowing that even if it might not exist anymore, somewhere, sometime, somebody got a movie-worthy love story. And I am so happy I know those somebodys.

Happy first date anniversary, Grandma and Grandpa!