bloody marty mix
89/365: 1970-1971
Saturday, 23 August 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 3: 1970-1971
In the blur that is my toddler years, there are only fragments. Half-heard voices and iridescent vapor at the corner of my eyes, gone almost as soon as you focus on them. I have no idea which are real memories, which are things I've been told by other people, and which are things that I've wholly imagined.
Some combination of all three have conspired to construct a memory of sitting around the Christmas tree at my grandmother's house, holding and petting the cat. The cat must have grown tired of the attention because it swiped at my face and, much to the surprise of both of us, caught its claw in my nose. I jumped up, cat dangling from my nostrils and began screaming. I'm sure it must have been over quickly, but I don't remember the resolution. I don't even remember the pain. I only remember the sudden oddity of having the cat dangling from my nose. This became a favorite story for my family to retell over the early years, and in the retelling, I suspect it grew in proportion, like a prize fish. Did I really have a cat dangling from my nose? Do I really remember that, or have I constructed a big fish out of tall tales? I don't know, but it amuses me, so I haven't prodded this fish very hard.
This is about the time my parents divorced, so I think of this as the beginning of the break with my father's family. Both families lived near each other in San Jose, so I assume I spent a good deal of time with them when I was a baby. After the divorce, however, sole custody was awarded to my mom, and shortly thereafter we moved to Los Angeles. I visited my paternal family periodically after the move, but I was never again to experience them as a daily influence and presence. Having no specific memories of the time when they were a constant presence, I can only imagine what that was like, reconstructing the memories from photographs and assumptions.
Who am I?
I am my heritage.
I am half-Mexican -- a mestizo from the middle of a mestizo state. I have jokingly referred to myself as Wexican, because I'm envious of the fun biracial slang that other half-breeds claim. The only slang I know for Latino/Caucasian mixes is Coconut, and it's more a term of derision for a Latino who thinks he's white -- something akin to Oreo.
I have a hard time knowing how to incorporate this into my world. This is my father's family. This is the history we left behind. I didn't grow up learning that cats were gatos and horses were caballos. I didn't grow up helping my grandmother make tamales and nopalitos. I didn't spend the endless days of summer running through the neighborhood with great hollering gobs of cousins. I remember doing those things on my periodic visits with the family, and they are some of my warmest memories, but they were an uncomfortable, not-quite-tangible part of my identity.
As I've grown older, I've made attempts to reclaim this identity, but it's hard to know how. I grew up as a Caucasian person. I have fair, ruddy-cheeked, Irish skin. People unfamiliar with Latino morphology usually assumed I was Italian, with perhaps a pinch of Native American. Other Latinos always recognized me, but I spent most of my growing up years in rural, northern Michigan, where there were no Latinos. Culturally, I am Irish Catholic. So what does it mean to say that I am Wexican, when the rest of the world sees me and treats me as white? I fear that I am being both presumptuous and condescending to try to claim any part of my identity as Mexican.
And yet, it's there. It's real. I am. I can see it in the slightly asiatic fold of my eyes, and in the dark circles that frame them. I can see it in my wide, flat face, the square jaw and the Mayan nose. I can see it in the thick hair and full, dark brows. It's there in the mirror and the lens every day, but its incorporation into the rest of my world remains a mystery to me.
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89/365: 1970-1971
Saturday, 23 August 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 3: 1970-1971
In the blur that is my toddler years, there are only fragments. Half-heard voices and iridescent vapor at the corner of my eyes, gone almost as soon as you focus on them. I have no idea which are real memories, which are things I've been told by other people, and which are things that I've wholly imagined.
Some combination of all three have conspired to construct a memory of sitting around the Christmas tree at my grandmother's house, holding and petting the cat. The cat must have grown tired of the attention because it swiped at my face and, much to the surprise of both of us, caught its claw in my nose. I jumped up, cat dangling from my nostrils and began screaming. I'm sure it must have been over quickly, but I don't remember the resolution. I don't even remember the pain. I only remember the sudden oddity of having the cat dangling from my nose. This became a favorite story for my family to retell over the early years, and in the retelling, I suspect it grew in proportion, like a prize fish. Did I really have a cat dangling from my nose? Do I really remember that, or have I constructed a big fish out of tall tales? I don't know, but it amuses me, so I haven't prodded this fish very hard.
This is about the time my parents divorced, so I think of this as the beginning of the break with my father's family. Both families lived near each other in San Jose, so I assume I spent a good deal of time with them when I was a baby. After the divorce, however, sole custody was awarded to my mom, and shortly thereafter we moved to Los Angeles. I visited my paternal family periodically after the move, but I was never again to experience them as a daily influence and presence. Having no specific memories of the time when they were a constant presence, I can only imagine what that was like, reconstructing the memories from photographs and assumptions.
Who am I?
I am my heritage.
I am half-Mexican -- a mestizo from the middle of a mestizo state. I have jokingly referred to myself as Wexican, because I'm envious of the fun biracial slang that other half-breeds claim. The only slang I know for Latino/Caucasian mixes is Coconut, and it's more a term of derision for a Latino who thinks he's white -- something akin to Oreo.
I have a hard time knowing how to incorporate this into my world. This is my father's family. This is the history we left behind. I didn't grow up learning that cats were gatos and horses were caballos. I didn't grow up helping my grandmother make tamales and nopalitos. I didn't spend the endless days of summer running through the neighborhood with great hollering gobs of cousins. I remember doing those things on my periodic visits with the family, and they are some of my warmest memories, but they were an uncomfortable, not-quite-tangible part of my identity.
As I've grown older, I've made attempts to reclaim this identity, but it's hard to know how. I grew up as a Caucasian person. I have fair, ruddy-cheeked, Irish skin. People unfamiliar with Latino morphology usually assumed I was Italian, with perhaps a pinch of Native American. Other Latinos always recognized me, but I spent most of my growing up years in rural, northern Michigan, where there were no Latinos. Culturally, I am Irish Catholic. So what does it mean to say that I am Wexican, when the rest of the world sees me and treats me as white? I fear that I am being both presumptuous and condescending to try to claim any part of my identity as Mexican.
And yet, it's there. It's real. I am. I can see it in the slightly asiatic fold of my eyes, and in the dark circles that frame them. I can see it in my wide, flat face, the square jaw and the Mayan nose. I can see it in the thick hair and full, dark brows. It's there in the mirror and the lens every day, but its incorporation into the rest of my world remains a mystery to me.
[ view previous | view next ]