Chicana identity

Not a Spanish speaker, or an English speaker either

March 15, 2011 by Lesley Tellez

Lately when I’ve been talking, my brain’s had trouble deciding which language to use.

Twice now I’ve said “exactlo” instead of exactly. (A hybrid of exacto + exactly.) I’ve used the phrase “por lo minimum.” With Spanish-speaking friends, I’ll switch to English without even realizing that I’m doing it. And then I’ll look at them and they’ll look at me, and I feel kind of like an idiot. This has happened to me in cooking class in the past few weeks. I’ve been calling out to my partners about whether they need a pan, or if they’ve seen the sugar. Pero en inglés.

The annoying thing is that I have no control over any of it. It’s not that I’m pausing and searching for the right word — I’m just speaking normally and then boom, out comes a word in another language. But I’m guessing this is a step forward in my Spanish journey, right? I was embarrassed of my Spanish when I moved here, and then I gained more confidence and didn’t care if I messed up. Then slowly — poco a poco, as they say — I added a few choice slang words, and started noticing people’s cadences and accents. Lately I’ve also begun wondering if my cadence is “fresa,” although I’m still not entirely sure what that sounds like yet.

Just a few weeks ago I interviewed a prospective guide for Eat Mexico on the phone. He told me later, after we met in person and had a much longer talk, that he had originally assumed from our phone conversation that I was Mexican. I took it as compliment, but it’s just weird to think about. Sounding Mexican is something I’ve wanted since I was in my early twenties. How could it be that I’ve accomplished this already? There are so many nuanced cultural things I still don’t get, like how to end a phone conversation with “ándale pues” and who gets an “un beso” and who doesn’t.

Has this happened to you, where you find yourself in this weird, hybrid-language zone where the words just come out without knowing which language you’re speaking? I guess this is a form of Spanglish, but it’s not like any Spanglish I’ve ever known. I’d defined Spanglish as something conscious — the act of physically latching onto whatever word pops up in my head first. Not creating new words faster than my mind can keep up.

Photo from Flickr user Satanslaudromat

Baby got (plastic) back

September 1, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

When I was in high school, I used to hate that my body didn’t look like all the other girls’. My jeans always fit a little too snugly in the rear, which embarrassed me, because boys occasionally checked me out and no doubt they thought I dressed that way on purpose. “I didn’t ask for this butt!” I wanted to tell my girlfriends, who all had average-sized rear ends.

Over the years I’ve made peace with my body, mostly. But wandering around with Crayton in the Zona Rosa on Saturday night, I noticed a few mannequins that were crying out for some Sir Mix-A-Lot companionship. Actually, I think my exact words to Crayton were, “DUDE! Do you see this? I gotta get a picture!”

At that moment, I felt a twinge of pride. Mexico loves voluptuous women and that just so happens to be me. Thank you, bodacious mannequins.

Back from America, and halfway Mexican again

August 24, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

We got back from our USA vacation last night, and I’ve realized there’s some sort of sign on our heads saying, “Search our luggage!”

When we went through Mexican customs, I pressed the button and the light turned red, which means the customs agent pulls you over to the side and makes you unzip everything. (This has happened to us four out of five times.) Luckily it was a cursory search. The agents looked under our clothes and then waved us on.

“You could have brought quinoa!” Crayton said.

“Eh,” I said. “I’ll just appreciate it more the next time I eat it.”

We did bring back a ton of goodies, though. Among them: good ol’ Kentucky-made bourbon, which you can’t buy in Mexico.

And dark chocolate M&Ms, which I promptly demolished when we got home. Notice the sexy lady M&M on the cover — I felt a little pang of nostalgia remembering how ferociously dark chocolate is marketed to American women.

Ghiradelli chocolate squares are impossible to find in Mexico City, if you don’t have a car and time to spend hours looking for them. So we bought them at duty free.

And I trucked back some crystallized ginger, for salads/breads/stir fries or chocolate-dipping experiments.

Among my other U.S.A. booty: wax paper and parchment paper, which none of the grocery stores I visit ever seem to have; discount designer jeans from Nordstrom’s Rack; a grill brush; lots of cookbooks and a few crime novels. Also snagged two cookbooks from my grandmother’s old stash, and I can’t wait to go all Betty Draper on them. (Sweet potato ham puffs, anyone?)

When we were coming back, I couldn’t decide whether our visit was too short or just right. The day before we left, I was sitting in my friend’s car in Seattle and staring out the window at the trees, and the light rail, and the nice grocery stores. I commented something along the lines of, “I don’t want to go back!” Although, of course, I did. I just didn’t want to leave the friends we only see once a year. They cheered while Crayton and I sang Sussudio at karaoke. They loved our jamaica flower quesadillas. And they were very patient and curious with all of our Mexico stories. I’m sure I’d get bored hearing them after awhile. (“And then we woke up without water… again.”)

It’s interesting, though. Finally, after seven months of living here, I’m not as conflicted about where my home is anymore. I live in Mexico. I’m a cuidadana here. The U.S. is a great place to visit, but that’s not where my heart is right now.

Today — with my tiny washer/dryer whirring, and clean dishes drying in my dish rack, and the cars occasionally honking outside the window — life seems just as it should be. Especially now that I have those Ghiradelli chocolate squares.

Fourth of July in Mexico

July 6, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

We spent Saturday at a barbecue sponsored by the American Benevolent Society and the American Society of Mexico. There weren’t any fireworks, but they had hot dogs and hamburgers, so that was nice. They also had apple pie. And kick-ass brownies.

The party was held at a private home in Lomas de Tecamachalco, a suburb west of here. Most folks there were probably our parents’ age, but we met some interesting people, including a woman who styles food for cookbooks, which I am in awe of.

Next year I think we’ll do our own cookout, assuming our grill works by then. (Update on that front: They have shipped us the part to repair our leaky regulator. Or rather, they say they have. We’ll see if we ever get it.) Can you imagine the spread? I could do mac n’ cheese, now that I’ve found sharp cheddar at the Superama in Polanco; burgers, dogs, my grandma’s potato salad with big chunks of hard-boiled egg and black olives. Mmmm.

Funny, but I didn’t really feel any burst of patriotism being out of the country on Independence Day. Actually, in my life, I only remember getting teary-eyed at one Fourth of July, when I’d just gotten back from studying for 10 months in Spain. My brothers wanted to watch the fireworks at the Queen Mary, but no one could get their act together for the long drive out to Long Beach, so we ended up at some random parking lot in Upland. As the fireworks went off, I stared up at the sky, so grateful and amazed to be back in the U.S., where they had pancakes and giant highways and actual Mexican-Americans! (Who didn’t yell at me for not knowing Spanish.)

Lately I’m just so grateful to be living in Mexico. July 21 will be six months.

Lookin’ pretty in a foreign country

June 24, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Because I’m girlie and fairly princessy, and maybe just a teensy bit vain, I worried a bit before I got here about whether I’d be able to access certain quality beauty services. Specifically: a good hairstylist, an aesthetician and a fungus-free place to get pedicures.

Thankfully, I’ve found an aesthetician whom I adore. (Whew! So totally key when you’re living in a country with fabulous beaches, and you desire to visit places like Brazil.) I found a place to get pedicures, where the staff serves hot tea while they scrub your feet. And today, I think — and I hope I’m not jinxing myself — I finally found a place to get my haircut.

It’s kind of hilarious, actually. The shop is called “Robin by Enrique Bricker” and it’s one of those super trendy places where the staff is young, pierced, tattooed, wearing MC Hammer pants with a Hello Kitty tank top, etc. They don’t take appointments. Instead you show up whenever and wait in line. On weekends, the line stretches outside the store. But during the week, if you don’t have a job and you’re really supposed to be writing freelance stories but are instead procrastinating, you can show up and there’s usually no one there.

So I went today. It was technically my second visit. On my first visit, the stylist gave me horrible spiky bangs, but I’d only paid 200 pesos and I was happy with the rest of the haircut. It was worth another roll of the dice.

This time, I gave my name to the Hammer-Panted Hello Kitty receptionist and she referred me to a woman named Aline. Aline was stick-thin, wore ankle boots, leggings and a baby-doll top. She also had very straight, thick bangs. We chit-chatted a bit about the style I wanted and she asked me where I was from. I told her I’d moved here with my husband. She said, “You’re married? You look so young.” The phrase she used was “bien chava.”

From that point on, I loved Aline.

She listened to my thoughts about my bangs, and snipped quickly, taking off entire sheaths of my hair with just a few flicks of the scissors. She didn’t exactly cut the length — more like she sucked out the volume. I loved this. (The spiky-bangs lady did it too, by the way.) My whole life, hairstylists have wailed at me, “You have so much hair!” But in Mexico, they just snip y ya. They know how to tame thick hair. Best of all, I now have hair that I can wrap four times — not two! — with a ponytail holder.

Anyway, Aline finished cutting and got out the flat iron. She pressed, and steamed. Fifteen minutes later I had a sleek cap of layered hair that I didn’t recognize. I looked…. Mexican. Like your average bien-chava girl walking down the street.

“I feel like I should be going to a club,” I told her.

She laughed. “Go! Take advantage of it!”

So here I am at home with my soft, thin hair. Not going to a club tonight, but I may go grab a drink at the Mexpat. If you don’t recognize me, I’ll understand.

Not quite Mexican, and not quite American either

March 6, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

When we got to the San Diego airport last Saturday, I immediately felt a twinge of culture shock. People were so much taller. The spaces were so much larger. Hell, the people were so much larger. And there was so much… stuff. Shop after shop of T-shirts, key chains, candy. I missed Mexico. I missed seeing fresh-squeezed orange juice on every corner and hearing the “Diez peso, diez peso, diez peso” over and over again from the people pushing their food carts.

Now that we’ve been here for six days, and wandered around the local lake, and sipped blood orange cocktails at Hash House A Go Go, my feelings have flipped. Part of me doesn’t want to go back. Life is so easy and comfortable here. We speak a language we know, we use the tap water to brush our teeth, I wear my wedding ring in public without a second thought. I can take as many things in my purse as I want — my entire wallet and all my credit cards! — and hang my purse on the back of my chair at a restaurant without worrying that it’s going to get stolen.

I know I just wrote a post about how safe I feel in Mexico, and it’s true, I do feel safe there. But I don’t think I’ve completely relaxed there yet. My guard is always up. Like Joy commented, you’re always taking certain precautions. It’s a fact of life. I just didn’t really realize how many precautions until I came back to the U.S.

We return tomorrow morning. I have lots of boxes to unpack, writing assignments to start. I’m looking forward to walking again and getting a big glass of orange/carrot juice from the guy on the corner of our street.

On being a half-foreigner in Mexico

February 12, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

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.

A last name that’s not so unusual anymore

February 10, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Pretty much everywhere I’ve ever lived, people have mangled the pronunciation and spelling of my last name. The one exception was San Antonio, Tex., where some people asked, “Are you related to Coach?”

When I worked in the Dallas suburbs, it was particularly horrible. I’d spell my last name, “T-E-L…” And they’d say, “T-E-O?” Me: “No, L!” Them: “O?” Crayton said I should have been pronouncing “L” as the long, drawn-out Southern “Aayyyll,” instead of my clipped California-style “El.” I refused to do it.

Anyway. No longer do I have to worry about such things: