I Swear I'm Mexican

That is how I have had to reply to people all of my life. My light skin and hazel eyes drawing nothing but skepticism when most people ask, "What are you?"

My Uncle Ardy, who is no longer with us,  use to laugh and call me "the Jerk" relating my dilemma to Steve Martin's character in the 80's film which had a white guy consider himself a part of black culture. When I worked in Head Start classrooms, Mexican parents would ask how I spoke Spanish so well and I would tell them that I am Mexican. In shock they would ask where I was from. I replied, "Mesa, Arizona". I went on to explain that my Nana Grandma came from Mexico in the early 1900's but my soul, "mi alma",  is Mexican.



That is the part that seems to segregate and draw a lot of cynicism. If you are living in America and a citizen than you are American. But that would negate my cultural upbringing. Many of my friends were not raised having to spend full days making tamales at Christmas time. They were not raised with portraits of the Virgen de Guadalupe as their Mary-of-choice. They shunned their noses at the thought of cow's stomach while I tried to persuade them to eat the corn in the menudo. I was raised on lengua before it became a "hip" delicacy. My mom can make perfectly round tortillas without a tortilla press. Cinco de Mayo comes and goes with only a thought and prayer for those who fought in the battle of Puebla. I know that Mexican Independence is celebrated on el 16 de septiembre, a date too difficult for American companies to propagate into big money.

To throw a curve ball into this affair, I am actually a proud Mexican Dane. As proud as I am of my Mexican roots, I am just as fond of my Danish heritage. Unfortunately, like many cultures that come to America, my Danish family assimilated into the USA without holding on to their culture. They changed their name, stopped speaking their language and forgot most of their native recipes. My father, to this day, fights like hell to get it all back. We both swear that someday we will speak Danish too.

Considering myself Mexican does not mean I am not a proud American. Both grandfathers fought in World War II; one in Europe and the other in the Pacific. I know more about World War II than most people my age because of the pride both sides of my family enforced as part of our upbringing. My Mexican grandfather was a miner here in Arizona, one of the many highlighted as an important part of Arizona's rich history. My Mexican grandmother worked in both the Ritz and the Nile, two Mesa movie theaters that segregated. Many do not know that Arizona did not just segregate blacks and whites, but Hispanics as well. My grandmother's biggest heartbreak was seeing Latino boys coming home on leave from World War II and having to sit away from everyone else. I learned of the horrors of people, documented and undocumented, herded like cattle and sent back to Mexico. How can I deny that history, both horrific and beautiful, which flows continuously into the next generation?

I have always remained in a limbo world between to major cultures. I'm an outsider looking in to two cultures that will not entirely embrace me. I love them both though and want them to love me. With the passage of SB1070 I see so many from different cultures coming forward and showing support. The thing with living in a "melting pot" is that none of us fit in, not entirely. America was always the place for outcasts, the people who weren't free to live in peace and religious freedom. When did that change?

In grade school we performed a program on the Statue of Liberty. The song lyrics taken from the poem by Emma Lazarus have been flooding my mind whenever I read some of the hateful comments across the internet and media sources.  "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Don't deny me my heritage and call me un-American for holding tight to my culture. Whether crossing the border from Mexico or arriving on the East Coast from Denmark, my people worked hard to make a better life for future generations. Their blood, sweat and tears fuel my soul and keep me going so that my daughter will not only have a better life, but she will know the rich heritage that ushered in everything she has now.

I am a Mexican-American-Dane and damn proud of it!