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Sunday, Sep. 14, 2008

Seeking an Identity: Two Mexican immigrants explore their identity in a land they call home

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We are American.

We are also Mexican.

We are Mexican Americans. The best of two cultures, two countries, two languages.

We were born in small ranches just like our forefathers. Three generations lived together in the same home. We helped milk cows or goats. Pigs, roosters and turkeys were part of our playgrounds. Radionovelas or telenovelas supplied the evening entertainment.

The oldest one of us (Esparza, 52) cut wood for his grandmother's stove, drank water drawn from an open well and transported on a buck wagon, used kerosene lamps for lighting and once fled as an 8-year-old to a nearby hill to avoid a river flood.

The youngest one of us (Ruiz, 32) participated in the town's Reina de la Primavera (Spring Queen) pageant and got her own tiara. She also realized that getting an education beyond the sixth grade was considered a luxury, because continuing school would mean traveling to the next town.

English was a very foreign language. Our early connections to the United States were tenuous: One of us (Esparza) had a Texas-born father who worked for great lengths of time across the grandparents' ranch nestled near the Río Grande; another's (Ruiz) father also would be absent for long stretches as he followed seasonal work in the fields of California.

Our lives changed forever -- Esparza's in 1958, Ruiz's in 1984 -- when we suddenly found ourselves in a new land, where speaking Spanish is sometimes frowned upon.

Where paved roads replace dirt roads.

Where families tend to live separately and were happy about that arrangement.

Where diversity goes beyond Mexicans who were identified as morenos (dark-skinned) or guëros (light-skinned).

Where your milk comes from cartons or bottles, instead of fresh-squeezed from the family cow.

Where playgrounds with swings and merry-go-rounds take the place of one's imagination running wild inside a crumbled adobe building.

Where people constantly change your name: Juan becomes John, Carlos becomes Charles, María becomes Mary, Jorge becomes George; José becomes Joe; Josefina becomes Josephine; and Roberto becomes Robert. You are lucky if your name is Cuauhtémoc, because it can't be Americanized.

Where corn or flour tortillas give way to white bread, bologna and mayonnaise.

Where plazas and their beautiful kioskos are replaced by shopping malls.

Where the dreaded mordida (bribe) takes place only in movies.

Where all school-age children are expected in the classroom.

Where a kid spends money on an ice cream cone instead of a raspado (snow cone).

There are two moments that help define our identity as Mexican Americans, the term we both prefer to describe ourselves.

Esparza: The first came on July 16, 1969, when, watching on a black-and-white television set outside Earlimart, I witnessed the historic landing of man on the moon.

I remember cheering when I saw Neil Armstrong walk on the moon and heard Walter Cronkite punctuate the moment with "Hot diggity dog! Yes, sir!" I was proud to live in America. That's when I realized the greatness and the potential of this country.

Ruiz: The second came in the November 1995 general election when I entered my polling place and found my name on the list of registered voters.

I could not stop smiling. I understood voting was my privilege and I planned to make full use of it. There also have been times when I'm driving late at night and I encounter the U.S. flag fully lighted. That tends to bring a warm feeling because I know this country has offered my family and me a safer and better place to live than Mexico, and I'm so grateful for that.