Chicano identity

Peanut butter tacos, and other secret tortilla behaviors

November 11, 2010 by Lesley Tellez

The New York Times had an article on spaghetti tacos awhile back. Did you see it? It was about how popular spaghetti tacos have become among kids. The tacos are exactly what they sound like, by the way: spaghetti noodles and tomato sauce, stuffed inside a tortilla.

It got me thinking about all the stuff I used to put in tortillas as a kid. We didn’t always have bread in the house, but we always, always had a package of flour tortillas in the lunch meat drawer. One of my favorite after-school snacks was a hot dog wrapped in a tortilla. Or a slice of bologna in a tortilla. Loved a tortilla with a smear of crunchy peanut butter, or layered with Kraft singles and microwaved until the cheese bubbled out the sides.

These days, my tortilla preference has switched to corn, but I still eat corn tortillas with peanut butter all the time. Sometimes I even add a little jelly. (PB&J in a tortilla! Yes, I’m fully admitting that’s weird.)

I’m curious: What is your favorite odd filling to put in a tortilla? What about when you were a kid?

The ever-evolving Latina identity, and meeting other paisanos in New York

October 8, 2010 by Lesley Tellez

*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.”

Homemade veggie enchiladas with quintoniles, corn, rajas and onion

June 22, 2010 by Lesley Tellez

Just so you know what caliber of dish we’re dealing with here, I served these to Alice as leftovers last week. She took a few bites and said: “Lesley. I think this is the best thing you’ve ever made in Mexico.”

I’m sure it was the quintoniles. And the homemade tomato-based enchilada sauce.

I didn’t explain this very well in the other post, but quintoniles really like a lighter version of spinach. You don’t get any of the bitterness. None of the squeaky texture across your teeth. Just mild, mellow flavor. They’re like the Dazed and Confused green, just wanting everyone to relax and enjoy themselves.

This veggie combination came about somewhat randomly. Somehow, all the stars aligned and everything I hoped to happen, did: The enchiladas were hearty and light at the same time; sweet and salty; toothsome from the corn, and lightly fried tortillas.

Not to get all weird-bohemian-girl on you, but I felt a sense of time passing as I ate them. Like, suddenly it became very clear that the pre- and post-Mexico me had morphed into two different people.

This is because I have a little bit of a history with enchiladas. In my 20s, when I lived in Texas, enchiladas were one of my “go-to” dishes. I’d dip the tortillas in canned sauce, blanket them with cheese and bake them. Sometimes I’d wear an embroidered Mexican blouse as I cooked, just to let people know, you know, that I was Mexican-American.

People would ooh and ahh when the dish came out of the oven. I’d think: I am so proud of myself for serving real Mexican food from scratch.

And here I am today. The two things I’d always wanted — to live in Mexico, and speak Spanish — have happened. I know more about Mexican food than I ever thought I would, and most of what I truly enjoy is nothing like the cheese concoction I used to make. (My favorite Mexican dishes don’t have any cheese at all.)

I still wear my Mexican blouse, but just because I like how it looks, not because I want to express any overt cultural connection.

Really, I’m just more confident in myself. And my cooking.

Funny how one bite of food can stir up all that, no?

Here’s the recipe.
…

Am I a real Spanish-speaker now?

December 2, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

When I first got to Mexico 10 months ago, I felt jumpy and anxious almost every time I tried to speak Spanish. A fearful voice would pipe up in my head: What if no one understands me? What if I sound like an idiot? I look Mexican, but my accent blows. They’re going to think I’m a pocha. Maybe… I really am a pocha.

The more I talked, the more that feeling lessened. I dealt with the gas company when our meter broke. I ordered dozens of taxis, and requested an ATM card over the phone, and went to the dentist and the doctor. I bought chicken and beef from various mercados, and instructed them on whether I wanted it in filets, ground, deboned. I began to ask the people in the grocery stores for help when I couldn’t find an item, like the elusive cilantro.

A few days ago I was chatting with my Venezuelan-born friend Daniela. She mentioned how, despite living in the U.S. for years, she still doesn’t feel fluent in English, but she no longer cares about messing up. I realized: That’s me, too. I throw out words with abandon, sometimes without really knowing whether I’m correct or not. Maybe I’ll phrase the iffy word as a question — “Éstas pantalones parecen demasiado… apretadas…?” — or maybe not. The point is, I’m confident. I know I’ll eventually get understood. And if someone looks at me strange, I smile and start over. I know, in my heart, that not one bit of me is a pocha. I hate that word.

It’s funny, because this week at the FIL in Guadalajara, I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of American writers who don’t speak much Spanish at all. Yesterday we went to dinner and I was the translator. The translator! Not just for the food, but for cultural issues, such as how much to tip a taxi, why the check was taking so long, etc.

“So how did you learn Spanish?” a few people asked me. The question struck me as odd, because I thought it was obvious that I was still learning. But then I realized that I knew way more than them, and actually, maybe I knew quite a lot.

It’s weird, because part of me doesn’t even want to accept that this is happening. I’m in disbelief. Are my Spanish skills really good? Is it really true? The deeper issue here, for those of you who don’t know me very well, is my complicated history with Spanish. I never cared much about it until I got to college, and then suddenly I felt guilty and angry and sad that I never tried to learn.

The rational side of me is over the moon that my Spanish has improved so much. But emotionally I still can’t admit it to myself. Maybe I’m just being a perfectionist. Or maybe I’m still clinging to this fear that I’m never going to speak Spanish well, because I’m not Mexican.

Truly, I still have a lot to learn. I can’t think quickly on my feet in Spanish, or express every sentiment I’d like to. But I am happy with how much I’ve accomplished so far. I have carved out a normal, fulfilling life for myself here, based almost entirely on my language abilities.

I can at least admit that to myself.

How to cook a tortilla

October 27, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

When I was growing up, my mom used to heat up tortillas by placing them, one at a time, on our stove’s gas flame. We usually had flour instead of corn, and she’d put one on the flame and then go away for a few seconds. When the air started to smell like charred toast, she’d come back and flip it. One side of the tortilla would be covered with black, burned splotches.

“You burned it!” I’d tell her.

She’d say: “I like them that way.”

I used to think eating burned tortillas was weird. But lately, I’ve started leaving my corn tortillas on the flame just a little bit longer. The burned parts give it this smoky, carbony taste, and it makes the tortilla a little crisper, without turning it into a tostada.

Here in Mexico, our stove has a comal between the burners. I used it once to heat up my corn tortillas, and I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I didn’t like it too much. The tortillas came out too soft. Not enough burnt parts.

How do you like your tortillas? And how do you cook them?