*Photo by artist Dulce Pinzon, taken from her new Superheroes series, which depicts Mexican immigrants in superhero costumes. Check out more on her website.
I’m staying in New York City with family for the next few weeks, and yesterday the building’s doorman stopped me as I was walking out. He was a young guy, maybe late twenties.
He introduced himself as Napoleón and asked for my name. I told him. He said, in English, “Are you of… Hispanic heritage?”
I said yes.
“From where?”
“Mexico. I’m Mexican-American.”
His eyes lit up.
“Me too!”
My eyes lit up.
I wasn’t always so happy to meet other Latinos on the East Coast. In Boston, when I was in college, people would occasionally come up to me and make small talk in Spanish. They’d ask where I was from, where my parents were from, where I was born.
These exchanges usually made me uncomfortable, because they highlighted how much of a fake I was. I couldn’t speak Spanish and didn’t know where my family was from in Mexico. Plus, dude — my parents and grandparents were born in California. Did great-grandparents being born in Mexico (and only half of them, the other side is from New Mexico) even count for anything?
Of course, now I know that it does, and living 1 1/2 years in Mexico makes a world of difference. Excited at meeting another Mexican in the Village in New York City, I smiled and spoke to Napoleón in Spanish.
“De dónde eres?”
“Soy de Puebla.”
“A poco!” I said, secretly proud of myself for using slang. (A slang phrase that, incidentally, I first heard from a Oaxacan man in Seattle.) “Vivo en México!”
“En serio? El DF?”
We chatted and he told me that he was born in New York, but he visits Puebla once a year. I told him I moved to Mexico City almost two years ago from Texas. I left feeling like I’d made a new friend, even though we only spoke for maybe five minutes.
The past three or four times I’ve visited the States, it’s been me who’s been in Napoleón’s position, seeking out other paisanos and asking where they’re from. I purposely eat at American Mexican restaurants (the ones that purport to be authentic) and shop at Mexican markets, because I can speak Spanish with other people and find familiar food products.
Yesterday I walked by a few guys who looked like Mexican immigrants and my eyes lingered for a few seconds, just because they just looked so normal, like people I’d find in my neighborhood in Roma. I know it sounds ridiculous, but part of me really wanted one of them to glance over and make eye contact with me, so they would know that hey, they’ve got another paisana in the Village. They ignored me.
Napoleón called me “Chicanita” upon learning that I was born in L.A., which was funny, because I haven’t heard the diminutive version of Chicana before. (And I still feel kind of weird describing myself that way, for the same Chicana Falsa reasons I stated above.) Still, yesterday I found myself telling him, “Sí, sí,” because hell… it was true, wasn’t it?
Lately more than ever, I really do feel both Mexican and American, with the former occupying a large place in my soul. I’m happy and grateful to be a part of two cultures. And I accept the fact that my identity might someday change again. (A fact that never occurred to me in college — I thought you were who you thought you were, forever.)
As a side note, I loved hearing the Spanish pronunciation of Broadway. The “d” kind of dissolves, leaving this sexy-sounding “bro-way,” with the emphasis on the second syllable. “Vivo en la Catorce y Bro-way.”
