The other day, a new friend, Alice, asked me if people often think I’m Mexican. I said yes, but added that it’s not that great because the myth is destroyed as soon as I open my mouth. Once I start talking, most people give me a confused, “Wait… what the hell are you?” kind of look. This happens several times a day.
Ten years ago, I would have hated that look. HATED it. I would’ve gone home, ashamed, and kicked myself for being American and not Mexican, for not knowing Spanish, for being a dumb pocha.
Now that I’m older and a lot more comfortable with my American identity (I’m guessing age has something do to with that), I probably misspoke a little bit to Alice, because being an English-dominant Chicana here bothers me a lot less. Nothing can change the fact that I grew up in the U.S. watching G.I. Joe and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and eating mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and speaking English my whole life. So why put so much pressure on myself?
To be honest, the confused-look makes me feel kind of unique. Not everyone receives it. Only the 1-out-of-1000 who happen to look like they blend in, but — surprise! — they don’t.
Really, what I’ve been struck by most in living here so far is not feeling like a foreigner, but blending in for the first time. In the Metro, among the sea of brown faces, I’m just another girl walking with her head down, trying to change subway lines as quickly as possible. No one looks twice. In the subway in Boston, the lost Spanish-speaking tourists always flocked to me and asked for directions.
Walking around Mexico City, I’m the only one who knows that I don’t blend in completely. But that’s kinda the secret thrill. Not a burden.