People say I’ve always had a strong work ethic. Most attribute
this quality to how my parents raised me, but I think of this particular
ethic as more apart my genetic toolbox – apart of my Mexican-”ness.”
Anyone who knows me well knows that I am the last person to hammer down
an argument for Nature over Nurture – I believe we are more so the
products of our socialization. And anyone who knows me
at least somewhat knows
I have always held down two or more jobs at any given time. No, I never
mowed lawns. I never did landscaping or worked “back of house” at a
restaurant or any other stereotypical Mexican occupations you may be
conjuring up right now.
I’ve been working since before it was legal for me to begin doing so –
since the age of fourteen when my family members paid me
“under-the-table” at a shipping franchise in Texas. It was in college
when I began to feel guilty at being
only a student and started
serving at every restaurant from fine dining to overnight diners.
Currently, I am contracted by Clemson University for a full-time course
load, adjunct teaching two courses at a local community college, and
once again waiting tables for extra cash in my pocket and side (work)
thrills. I say all this because I think my pulsating need to overwork in
order to feel alive may be in my blood – in my Mexican genetics.
The inspiration for this post comes partly out of my current work
experiences – particularly when I started working at a fusion sushi bar
in town and quickly noticed there was
not one Mexican on staff.
Let me be clear, I have worked in the service industry off-and-on for
almost ten years and one thing I could always count on was seeing
Mexican cooks in the kitchen and Mexicans washing dishes. In fact,
living in Texas and California all my life meant not going
a day without a Mexican
(pun half intended). Then I started to look around campus – around my
neighborhood – around town. Where were all the Latino/a students and
families and workers? Where was Raza and mural paintings and breakfast
tacos from local taquerías? As I looked around all I saw was Black and
White but no Brown.
My recent move from the blue state of California to rural up-state
South Carolina forced me to notice the sheer lack of racial diversity
here, of diversity in general. From L.A. to the deep South, I went from
city grid streets and gridlocked traffic to winding country roads – from
neighborhoods flying rainbow PRIDE flags alongside American flags to
neighbors on tractors and country folk riding horseback along the
streets. I remember saying to a colleague just yesterday,
“It’s like
gay people don’t exist here. I mean, I know they exist but they aren’t
visible like they were in Long Beach. In California, people are proud of
their gayness. Here people hide it.” I went from having a Chinese
best friend and knowing an impressive Asian population on the West Coast
to only meeting Asian foreign exchange students at Clemson.
When I told a friend about my Clemson hire, it was the Fourth of July
and we were gathered on the rooftop terrace of his beachfront condo in
Long Beach watching fireworks ignite over the Pacific. I remember
looking out at the coastline and seeing fireworks shows all along the
distance – from Seal Beach to Huntington and all the way down to Newport
– and he told me something that I remember taking too lightly at first –
that South Carolina was the first state to succeed from the Union.
I remember him telling me that I should be prepared for deep South
racism. I said, “No way. Deep South is Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia!” –
nothing to worry about, I thought – surely growing up in conservative
Texas had prepared me this experience. And when I moved here in the heat
of the 2012 election, I remember driving through my rural neighborhood
and bring surprised by Obama sign after Obama sign in a region that is
an unapologetically Red one. Turns out, I live in the “hood” because the
more I began looking around the more I saw only African Americans.
White-Washing Myself; Marking (My) Whiteness
Growing up in the upper-middle class suburbs of North Dallas always
made me somewhat ashamed of my brown-ness. Try to envision a golf course
community – a Starbucks every two-square miles marking the outer
territory – and a community in protest for the building of a Wal-mart
not for the ill treatment of workers but for the “types” of people it
would draw into town. A childhood friend of mine – who remains one of
my closest platonic friends today – would purposefully skip the bus so
we could walk home together from middle school. She would joke with me,
“My parents said your parents can’t afford a pool in your backyard!” And
I would fire back, “My parents said your parents couldn’t afford a lawn
guy and that’s why your brother mows the lawn.” Little did we grasp our
keen understanding for irony and classism at the time. This has become a
vivid memory of mine as well because I remember in that moment feeling
ashamed that my two-story home was not as big as hers.
Growing up, I always felt naturally inclined to embrace an identity
more on my mother’s end of the racial spectrum – my Anglo side. Do not
misunderstand me: Spending family holidays with my father’s Mexican side
was preferred and always something I more looked forward to. It meant
never knowing which of my 30+ cousins would be there. It meant three
generations gathering together on any given occasion and tamales every
Christmas and piñatas on birthdays and a feeling of closeness –
the feeling of familia
– that went unmatched by my mother’s side. But I remember never feeling
afraid to bring my friends around my mom’s side of the family. I now
know the reason for this was because it was easier to embrace the idea
of whiteness in a community where “Being White” meant being superior.
White was the default. It meant performing yourself a class above the
rest and looking down on others and being judgmental. I spent my whole
life at the “borderlands” now even knowing it because I refused to
locate myself here- or at least remained ignorant to the fact it was
even a place inhabited – or perhaps was never allowed to see my brown
face looking back at me in the mirror.
It wasn’t until my graduate work that I began to feel a sense of
pride for my Mexican heritage. I took a Master’s level seminar called
“Postcolonial Dimensions of Rhetoric” – which, oddly enough, was taught
by a cooky elderly white woman who mistook my roommate/classmate Jesus
for “Jose” or “Josue” every once in a while. It was in this challenging
scholarly space that I was forced to confront my Latino identity and was
ultimately allowed to genuinely embrace the concept of Chicano Power. I
learned and internalized concepts like Victor and Edith Turner’s
“liminality” and “
communitas” as well as “
Santa María de Guadalupe.”
Call me, “Chex-Mex”
Recently, our department has been conducting hiring for tenure-track
professor positions – which, in academia, means flying applicant
finalists out separately for several days and assigning a strict
itinerary of dinners with the chair, meetings with the dean, brunch
receptions, teaching demos, job talks, and research presentations. At
one reception, I met a scholar where in our cordials we somehow began
talking about my new puppy Dexter. When she asked me the inevitable
question of what breed he belonged to – as they always do – and I didn’t
know how to respond since explaining his origin is always time
consuming and risks “tune-out.” My usual script is this: “Well, his
mother is Hound and Labrador and his father is Boxer and
Catahoula;
but the Vet thinks he has Shar Pei and Pitbull in him. I don’t see it
though.” But in this moment, I found myself swift and succinct:
“He’s a mutt. Like me.”
And the feeling that accompanied this response stuck with me because
it struck me as oddly freeing. It was revealing in a sense because it
felt “off the cuff” and honest. But also because I knew what I was doing
in that moment. I was paving the way toward a discussion about my
racial/ethnic identity. I was traveling the road less traveled – or the
road I had always sought to avoid. When the conversation took this turn –
although not immediately – I tell her what I tell many people who
similarly ask me, “What are you?”
I told her, “I’m Chex-Mex.”
I mostly say this because I think it sounds catchy. And when I get
the usual puzzled facial response, I enjoy the clarification: “Not like
the cereal. Like half Czech, half
Chilango.”
Chilango,
Meaning my
abuelito was a native of
La Ciudad de México
Who either legally or illegally immigrated to Texas and
Changed his surname to Castillo.
Castillo,
After the Castillian empire in Spain
As in Spanish royalty.
He had settled in
Los Estados Unidos
Married a Texas-native in my grandma
Who was born to a Frenchman
Who fell in love with a Mexican woman
Where they had run away to Wichita Falls.
All I have are stories of my father’s father – and vague stories at
that – about how he was a brick layer who did mosaics for a side living –
about his alcoholism – and his punishments with the switch. I never had
the opportunity of meeting my Mexican grandfather since he died in a
fatal car crash on Route 66 on his way out to a job in California. The
most vivid story I have about my Latino grandfather is my father’s
memory of first hearing the news about his sudden death – of his mother
screaming, crying, and pounding the walls in the next room of their
small two-bedroom house shared by his seven siblings – Lupita, Olivia,
Dolores, Elena, Candelaria, Ernesto and Alejandro – all of whom go by
whitened nicknames to this day. In fact, my father told me they were not
taught Spanish at home because the fifties was a time where many 1st
generation and 1.5 generation children were instructed to only speak
English as a way to more easily assimilate into American culture.
My mother’s familial lineage took an equally interesting turn of events. It seems as if
Life
just happens that way. I am coming to know that we can only be prepared
for the unprepared. My grandmother was born full-blooded
Czechoslovakian before the country was split into Slovakia and the Czech
Republic. Her family came to America through Ellis Island during the
early 20th century. I know this because, during a junior class trip to
New York City, my mother made sure to have me look at their names
permanently inscribed onto the walls at Ellis Island. I think it
interesting how these markings of identity are allowed – as a way for
governments to keep tabs – while certain markings of identity (see:
Exit Through the Gift Shop) are
considered illegal and subject to erasure. This reminds me of the
subversive nature of Chicano Mural Paintings that mark Hispanic
neighborhoods across the U.S. as a visual way for Latinos/as to
(non)discursively stamp their existence onto white culture. To shout,
“HERE WE ARE!” It was in my 11th grade year that I was becoming
interested in filling out the branches in my family tree and – in some
cases – raking up the dead leaves. My mother passed down a story to me
that made me think about the power of memory and remembrance. And it is
here in this space that I tell it again – perhaps not entirely
accurately either since this is how I remember it told to me – which
doesn’t make it any less accurate for me:
After making the long emigration voyage by boat, the Cvetkovich
family had reached New York City safely and healthily. I imagine their
arrival as something that happened right out of James Cameron’s
“Titanic” – where Rose looks up at the Statue of Liberty with a blanket
over her head as rain begins to pour – although much less traumatic than
arriving in the wake of the S.S. White Star line Titanic sinking, I’m
sure. When the family began to settle after the first few months, my
great grandfather quickly became homesick for Eastern Europe. He was not
coming to know America as the “land of opportunity” that had been told
to him at home. His wife, on the other hand, loved the United States.
One night, her husband abandoned her and her two girls (Sammie and
Mille) and fled back to Czechoslovakia. He took only his son Nicky with
him, who would later be reunited with his sisters years after his
mother’s death. Nicky informed his sisters that his father did not take
the girls because he saw their gender as a weakness. In hindsight, it
seems Nicky’s male-ness made him the high-priced commodity of his family
in his father’s eyes.
It is just now that I am coming to realize how perhaps my scholarly
fascination with masculinity studies stems from the fact that I come
from a combined history of absent fathers. But here I am focused on
locating race.
This abandonment made my “Gram” and her sister intensely close
growing up and I could see this strong bond as a child myself. In my
teenage years, she would later tell me stories of how the two used to
lock themselves her mother’s the bathroom as teenagers to smoke
cigarettes. Even as a six-year-old, I remember how alive she was around
her sister upon our visit to Flint, Michigan for my grandparent’s 50th
wedding anniversary. And when my grandma moved to Dallas upon a stroke
which left my grandpa blind – where he died shortly thereafter – and my
great aunt Sammie flew down for the funeral – it was Gram’s sister who
was her rock. I remember sitting in the car as we drove Sammie to the
DFW airport and the silence from my grandmother as my aunt Jody pulled
into the airport terminal. I remember seeing the two life-long
confidants say their goodbyes, their subtle embrace, and my Gram seeming
more sad for her sisters long-term departure than her husbands
life-long departure. And when Sammie died a few years back, I know my
grandmother took it really hard. As it turns out, my grandmother does
not know the real reason behind her father’s abandonment. I think she
speculates that the reason was because he had another family in Europe.
But my Gram would meet an Ohio native of Irish and (I think) German
decent which would later give me – her grandson – a Whiteness I could
attach myself to – an “acceptable” lineage needed to grow up a
“half-and-half” trying to pass for Anglo in a golf-course community.
Upon talking to a friend/colleague of mine at Clemson who is on an
expiring student visa from Switzerland, I was schooled about the intense
racism between Western and Eastern Europeans – for instance, Poles and
Czechs – between lighter complexions and darker features. When I look
inward, I have to face the fact that I have less Whiteness than I
remembered I thought I had – or at least that I performed myself with
all my life. I had spent a lifetime performing myself along a White
mindset when my body was distinctly marked the opposite. I remember how
people would ask me in high school if I was Mexican and I felt obligated
to agree with them – for to outwardly deny such would be a blatant lie
and downright disrespectful to my Mexican family – and I would counter
it with something along the lines of “I’m mostly white.” This took so
long for me to pin down because of the invisibility and elusiveness
associated with whiteness. It is only when we, as Nakayama and Krizek
remind us, demarcate and label whiteness that we can begin to comprehend
its slippery and ubiquitous nature. People still mistake me for Italian
or Middle Eastern and I now correct them by telling them, “No, no, I am
Chex-Mex.”
“Performance Cartography” & Locating Latinidad
As my search for more brown bodies in rural South Carolina continues,
I cannot help but be reminded of a brave essay I came across recently
by Karma Chavez (Take a look at the
piece for yourself). She puts forth a “performance cartography” as one empowering way for stamping her marginalized identity onto
Latinidad.
As a queer Latina feminist, Chavez takes the concept of maps – which
have historically functioned as colonial tools to reinforce white
constructions of space – and reconstructs it alongside storytelling and
“theories of the flesh” (see also: Moraga and Anzaldua, 1983). Theories
of the flesh are profound for how they bring forth stories we tell
from/about our “homeplace” (see also: D. Soyini Madison 1993). I hope to
have done one such thing here – to have used my personal narratives and
memories to work through issues of identity and subjectivity as they
relate to race/ethnicity/nationality.
Since Latinos/as have historically used embodiment and stories to
navigate the present circularly with the past and into future, I
advocate that we similarly adopt an “embodied mindset.” More so that we
seek out spaces of belonging, put forth competing discourses that
intersect and overlap, bring about new understandings of ourselves, and
remain always in the process of “becoming.”
Refs (In Order of Appearance)
Turner, V. W. (1967), ‘Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites de Passage’,
The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, pp. 93-111.
Nakayama, T. K., & Krizek, R. L. (1995).
Whiteness: A strategic rhetoric. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 81, 291-309.
Chavez, K. (2009), ‘Remapping
Latinidad: A Performance Cartography of Latina/o Identity in Rural Nebraska,
Text and Performance Quarterly, 29: 2, pp. 165-182.
Moraga, C. and G. Anzaldúa. (1983),
This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, New York: Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press.
Madison, D. S. (1993), “That Was My Occupation’: Oral Narrative, Performance and Black Feminist Thought’,
Text and Performance Quarterly, 13, pp. 213-32.
- By Ryan Castillo, M.A. - Lecturer in Communication Studies at Clemson University.
