Yesenia | Herrera
Mural by Jerry Jordan
 

Dear Jessica,

Remember our seven year-old pigtail girl duo? We were friends and foes, threatening to punch each other, when pacifist us wouldn’t even know how to throw the first swing. Ok, maybe I speak for myself.

It’s been a couple years, and I worry about you. I still remember March sophomore year. We lounged on a musky field, stuffed our faces with pizza while talking about our ill heads and ill deeds.

We began our tales by recalling a substantially less gentrified Mountain View, our two-bedroom sanctuary/prison (depended on the day), and families that always kept to themselves. Snobbish? Oh no, just a dab better.

Our nostalgia drove us to elementary school, a breading ground for Spanglish and vernaculars of all Latin origins. It was our only means of contact with packs of children other than each other. At the time, our classmates weren’t Latinos, or Mexicans; to our elementary school selves, they were just rowdy kids who spoke Spanish in ways our mothers would have undoubtedly disliked.

I transferred schools in third grade, and as did you a year or so later. The blonde girl rarity of our early elementary school years, morphed into a twenty head classroom routine. We were soon made aware that our closet homes housed twelve people, that our food was a Taco Bell equivalent, and that our tongue was fair game for jokes. Oh, and let’s not forget how good we must be at fence hopping. “Hey, could you grab that Frisbee for us?” Pero viva la raza! “Cute,” you’d say. What is there to be proud of? They can hold up three jobs and still smile as they anticipate the glorious weekend? A weekend that, mind you, would be void of books and packed with box after box of Coronas and tacos. Oh, and salsa and piñatas. Don’t forget the salsa and piñatas.

We sat in class and watched kids indulge in bloodshed. Poor Indians, torn tradition, washed religion but God bless America the great! After all, what’s done is done. This was Mexico once? Well, they did leave street signs begging for excessive tongue rolling and people to pick our grapes. Thank you for your contributions. The Chinese? I think they have a town in San Francisco somewhere. Let’s have a Chinese New Year extravaganza! What’s better than money, noodles and fireworks? Civil rights? Oh yea, Bla—African Americans did some stuff. They’re a brave people and helped with the Civil Rights Movement. It came with a lot of benefits for them. After all, they aren’t slaves anymore and have an entire month dedicated to their success. Oh the sweet taste of victory, a memorandum of a sweet escape from the confines of second-class citizenship!

We took it in, every bit of it. What about the other ethnic kids? Well, there were exceptions, but most spent their time in ESL. Not to worry, Antonio would never miss a session with his tutor. If the teacher forgot to nudge him out the door, little Jack would kindly run to the front of the classroom and announce that he must depart immediately. “Go learn how to read.” Oh, and the snicker was unintentional. All is fair; this stuff wasn’t even interesting or relevant to Mexican boy anyway.

There was even more light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike you who’d flip said person off, if I were called Mexican, I’d cringe inside, but smile from cheek to cheek, waving a red, white and green flag. I’d even move my prepubescent hips to Shakira beats while I stuffed my face with burritos. Being called ‘Mexican’ made me feel dirty. These feelings were wrong, and I knew it well. After all, my teacher and other people loved Folkloric dancing. So pride, I’d beg, rein your blessing over me or I’ll pull you out of your cave and force you into my life.

A diploma and handshake took us to middle school. I then spent days memorizing Neruda for a Spanish poetry contest while you looked into eyelid surgery over your history homework. “Hey, does my new haircut make me look Korean? Please tell me it makes me look Korean,” because what could be worse than looking poor? Things were forcibly sunny side up for me. My middle school utopia took me in, and I learned Kahlo and Rivera, read Julia Alvarez, met Latino mathematicians, shook Francisco Jimenez’s hand and more. Maybe, just maybe, we’re more than a frilly quinceañera dress.

Oh hate, he’s Destruction King and lover of demise. The man usually targets a begrudged ‘ex,’ your child’s assassin, a neglectful mother, or even the teacher who gave you homework over vacation. I didn’t hate Mexicans and we both know it. This was something different; self-hatred disguised as mere shame, wrapped its cold arms around our waists and refused to let go. ‘Mexican’ was something I liked on others and could appreciate on others but not on myself.

Today and then, Marquez saves me, as does Marti’s Nuestra America and let’s not forget Dario. Oh, the difference a handshake and a Sandra Cisneros’ book can make in children who are blind to their vulnerability. With all that said, pick up a book, my friend. Embrace the long hidden ingenuity of our heritage, discuss it with your teacher and hold it close to your chest. And while you’re at it, take the time to dive into other colors. It won’t hurt, and I can promise you that.

Love,
Yesenia