Why would I want to be summed up in a nutshell, I’m allergic to nuts. I usually write how I want a piece to end first. I have always been one to observe, so go ahead and stare back because I am always looking. I know most of my family history; enough to refer to myself as Mexican-American. I was raised on music and that is what I know how to do, besides going to school.
The color of my skin never really mattered to me. The only time I would talk about it was during Golf season and it was mainly complaining about tan lines. Certain things did not dawn on me until I had time to reflect on what had occurred, like when I attended Catholic school. Looking back, only me and this other girl were Mexican out of the two classes in my grade. All of my classmates were either White or Asian with the exception of one boy who was half African-American and half Filipino. This wasn’t a problem until we were in Jr. High. The “cliques” started to form and our teachers called us out on it. They wanted us to mesh since the Asians only hung out with other Asians and the White girls only played with other White girls. The only other brown girl besides me actually hung out with the White girls. While our teachers were lecturing about this, they singled her out because she only played with the White girls and that teacher called it a “stretch.” Of course, after that happened, people started playing with everyone for a time being. And while I watched this, it all looked bogus to me though they probably had the best of intentions. There were just some people who I didn’t care to hang out with. So I stayed with my “clique” of friends who were, coincidentally, the only multi-cultural bunch.
Apart from those five years I spent in the school that gave me a conscience, I remember preschool being a time of more…fun. My dad picked me up at the end of the day and we always listened to Arrow 93.1, his favorite station that played ‘60’s and ‘70’s classic Rock. He would always ask me who was playing the song even though most of the time I didn’t know. Eventually, I caught on and certain songs were familiar to me and I knew their names, but I didn’t know who they were. It wasn’t until I got older when I realized the impact of The Beatles and The Stones and how Clapton used to be God. I just liked the beat of their songs. I’d memorize lyrics without really knowing what they meant, but if I could sing along, it made the song better. I remember vividly one time arguing about the lyrics of a song on the way home. It was only one word, but I insisted that he had said “blood” while my father was adamant about hearing “mud.” As it turns out, we were both right, it just depended on what verse one was listening to. I didn’t know that the lead singer had died (months after I was born) of AIDS, nor did I know how many hits they’d had. But whenever that song came on, I was sure to stomp my feet and clap my hands.
I am usually very brief when it comes to answering questions, but sometimes words just aren’t enough. I feel that even if I were to write a book on my life, no one could really understand unless they talked to me or have seen what I have seen. Or maybe they completely understand and I am just doubting the effect/affect of my writing skills. It can mean both if I think it can. I was always taught that I could achieve anything even if it is impossible, but maybe that is my second-class citizen mindset. I see things in a different way and maybe I’m right. Conceited much? Maybe. But I’m pretty sure you know how this will end.
