Today is May 6,
2012. That means that yesterday, for the sixty-third straight year, I did not
celebrate Cinco de Mayo, the day some Mexicans, many Mexican-Americans and even
more Margarita-loving people of all nationalities celebrate Mexican culture. To
the people of the Mexican state of Puebla, the day commemorates the Mexican army's victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862. For most celebrants it is a day to visit the local cantina, enjoy a
chimichanga or two and pretend to know what’s being celebrated. Lots of people
think it is Mexico’s Independence Day; it’s not; that’s September 16.
So why am I dwelling
on this, especially since I do not, in fact, partake? Because I am thinking of
my real heritage -- which I also do not really celebrate.
My mother was
born in Puerto Rico; her parents were Spanish and Puerto Rican. Dad was Irish
and German, so though that makes me a mongrel, I’m still half Latin.
Unfortunately,
Mom didn’t celebrate our Latino background. As I grew up in the fifties, she
was interested in being as Anglo as possible. She dyed her hair, spoke only
English, cooked American food – her parents might have well been from Kansas.
I don’t blame
her. It was a different time. The whole melting pot fantasy was well subscribed
to and anyone who was different was usually uncomfortable with that difference.
I was as American as my classmates and neighbors.
Unfortunately,
being Anglo also meant not seeing my Mom’s side of the family very much. It’s
not that simple of course: she and Dad being the people they were (he, the head
of the family; she, the dutiful wife) and her side of the family living mostly
on the west coast or in San Juan are just two reasons that “family” pretty much
always meant Dad’s family, not Mom’s. I knew my Mom’s siblings, but they were,
in a sense, uncles and aunts once removed
– I hardly ever saw them.
Ransom and I
were on a ship that stopped in San Juan several years back. I got in touch with
my cousin Jimmy Toro and he took us to lunch. It was a great visit, and our first in forty years!
So as
Mexican-Americans are recovering from yesterday’s parties I am thinking wistfully
of a part of my story that I wish I knew better.
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