Mañana
They look at me; then they see me. They see the tint of my skin. They see the Kahlo unibrow. They see the Cantinflas mustache. They ask: “Where are you from?” But that is not what they are asking. They are asking “Why is your skin not pale? Your facial hair so thin? Your hair so thick?” Why, why, why. And I must answer, “My mother is Mexican.” And then they ask, “Do you speak Spanish?” And I must answer, “No.” To which they ask “Why?” And I must answer. But I do not answer. I think. My mother did not teach me. Was she ashamed to be Mexican? And her child a Chicano? Perhaps she wanted me to be American, whatever that meant. But that is not enough. It has been years, I could have learned Spanish, in school or elsewhere. Mi Abuela had offered to teach me. And I declined, saying it was too much for just one summer. Is it a personal shortcoming? Am I lazy? Or destined to be monolingual? Maybe I am my mother’s child, ashamed to be myself. To be the “other” in the room. But I must answer. How long has it been? Only seconds perhaps. And I answer. “My mother did not teach me. She wanted me to be American.” And they nod in acknowledgement, understanding this familiar story. How many have lost their mother tongue of their fatherland because their mother and father wanted an American child? Different from them, same as everyone else. But that is not the case. It is never the case. We are always different. Different from our parents, from our ancestors, but also our peers, our colleagues, our compatriots. We are stuck, like a scratched record, speaking our “native” language with a broken tongue when we talk to other people of our nation. One day, things will be different. We long for that day. But we will be sure to not make the same mistakes of our forefathers and foremothers. Our children will grow up different from us, free from our struggles.
