culture

I'm getting tired of explaining myself. I mean, why the fuck do I do it anyway? Here's what irritates me:

Someone speaks to me in Spanish. I give them the "huh" look; they give me the look of disbelief.

"You don't speak Spanish?"

"Not really. Took four years of it, I can order my food and read/write at a 3rd grade level, but that's it." I chuckle because I know what's coming next.

"Aren't you Mexican?"

Fucker, I think, so ignorant. *Sigh* Aren't Mexicans from Mexico? I've only been to Rosarito once and TJ twice in my life time.
Instead of explaining Mexicans are ppl from Mexico, I humor the ignorant person before me and answer, yes.

"Then why don't you speak Spanish? You're white-washed!"

Stupid wetback, I think. I hate the term 'white-washed.' It sounds like those ugly acid washed jeans we used to wear in the late 80's.
I then go into how I'm 6th generation here in the United States. (Don't hate 'cause I have papeles, puto, I think to myself.) I also give a brief history of how speaking Spanish wasn't acceptable and even punishable in the 50's-70's, so my grandma 'forgot' it and therefore didn't pass it onto my mom, etc. I go into the Chicano movement. Most people politely apologize by this point, but I know they don't get it. And they still think I'm 'white-washed.'

Yeah, I live in Alta Loma. It's nice there; I like to take my kids to a park where ghetto ass people don't convene. I like to live in a clean city where people give a hoot about their environment. Codified norms keep the city where we live nice and enjoyable. Is that trying to be "white?" I've lived in Fontana, Rialto, Rancho Cucamonga, Upland, Ontario, Pomona, Downey, Ontario, West Covina, and Long Beach. Presently Alta Loma. There are ghetto people everywhere...I don't think I'm better than anyone, its just that I've developed a lower tolerance for the bs.

When you see shopping carts in your neighborhood, that's when you know ghetto people are infiltrating.

I'm getting off topic here, though.

So, according to most, I'm not "Mexican." I'm most definetly not white. Funny, some woman once remarked, "My goodness, I LOVE your tan!" This was in line at Stater Bros market in Alta Loma. Bless your heart, lil white lady. I smiled and thanked her. It was awkward. Hello, I'm a Latina! The cashier smirked. The lady went on to ask where I got my tan. After a moment of thought on how to answer that politely, I told her it was compliments on my ancestors and that I had a year round tan that I was born with; thank God, saves me the money! She laughed and told me I was beautiful. Aww.

One of the first brushes with stereotypism I can remember was from a goofy pot head named Cody in some class called "Bach to Rock" my junior year at Rancho Cucamonga High School. She gave me some candy. Hot tamales. I popped a handful into my mouth and was surprised at how they burned my mouth. I said something of the sort to Cody and she looked at me with something like bewilderment. "Don't you eat, like, chiles and stuff for dinner everyday?"
Huh? I thought. "Last night I had meat loaf and mashed potatoes," I said. She shut up. I thought about it for a long while after. That was the first of many. Ignorance is funny.

I will yammer this up more next time, but right now I actually have to listen to what Professor Bright is yakking about.