Viva La Revolucion!

 

By

 

Sal Rodriguez

 

 

   I've carried a cultural-identity crisis with me all my life, never feeling like I fit in. I'm an American-Mexican; I'm multi-cultural.

   Although my dad is bi-lingual, I grew up speaking only English. Spanish was never spoken in our home, except when my dad would sing Spanish songs, or speak to relatives on the phone. My mom speaks only English, and she ingrained in me the concepts of perfect English, pronunciation, and enunciation. My neighborhood friends used to say, "Hey Sal, you talk white aye. Hey Roberto, check out Sal, he talks white aye." I'd call my friend Mario's house and his mother would say, "Un momento. Mario, es tu amigo huero!" Huero means white boy.

   Whenever I went to family functions, on my dad's side of the family, I felt like I was peering into another world - a world unlike that in which I lived. A world of quinceneras, baptismos, and birria. A world of Catholic Church on Sunday, with me being envious of my cousins and their slacks and shiny shoes. A world of pinatas and arroz con pollo, a far cry from the Swanson's TV dinners that we had at home. It was a culture so near and yet so far.

   My parent's families had names like Chuy, Chicho, Pelon, Conception, Arturo, Chilo, and Miguel. My mother's father's name was Salvador. My dad's name is Salvador. My name is Salvador. My family called me Peter, which is not my birth name, making the separation even more distinct.

   A few years ago my friend Yolanda and I went into a traditional Mexican market. You would have thought we were at a museum. We nostalgically walked down the aisles. We had either used the products ourselves, eons ago, or had extended family that consumed products such as Gamesa cookies. Yolanda and I often joke about how we're so not-Mexican. I attempt to disprove this theory by indulging in pan dulce, which are sweet breads. Not like Argentinean sweet breads, which are brains, but actual sweet breads with sugar coatings. I also keep a batch of De La Rosa Mazapan, which is a peanut confection, now bargain-priced at six for under one dollar at the local $.99 Only Store.  

   I identify with a scene from the movie Selena. Edward James Olmos is driving a car, accompanied by Jennifer Lopez. Selena is excited about their upcoming gig in Mexico. Her father, however, is apprehensive, not certain that Selena and her group will be accepted. "You don't understand Selena," he says, "We're not Mexican, we're American-Mexican. And when you're American-Mexican you have to be all things to all people. You have to speak perfect English for the Americans and perfect Spanish for the Mexicans." Welcome to my world.

   I bought two tickets to see George Lopez at the Universal Amphitheater, and who better to accompany me than my client and friend Marabina Jaimes, a Latina, and Emmy Award winning actress, singer, and voice personality. I eagerly anticipated my night of being Mexican. I wore my poncho, a recent Christmas gift from my sister Lorene, or Lorena, as my dad’s family called her. As I waited for Marabina to pick me up, I drank a Pacifico beer. I was feeling Mexican, looking Mexican, and ready to hang with Mexicans.

   As soon as we got to the theatre I began to struggle with ancient feelings of not belonging - everyone looks way more Mexican than me! I overheard dozens of people speaking Spanish. On a side note, over the years I have been given a hard time about not speaking Spanish. Which to me is odd, because Mexicans are a mix of two cultures - Spanish and Native Indian. So if I'm getting chastised for not speaking Spanish, then perhaps others should be scolded for not speaking Native Indian.

   I had the longest hair of any guy there. This confirmed what I have known for years. American-Mexican guys only have three kinds of haircuts: short, very short, and bald. I felt self-conscious with my long hair, wearing my poncho, and occasionally checking messages on my cell phone. I felt like an enigma.

   Needless to say, George Lopez was hilarious. I haven't laughed that hard in months. There I was, in the nosebleed seats, feeling a part of something - something deep; a connection long over due.

   Ironically, George Lopez and I didn't grow up too far from each other, neighboring cities, as a matter of fact. We even went to the same high school. We're also joined by alumni Cheech Marin, and of course who can forget Mr. La Bamba himself, San Fernando High School alumni Ritchie Valens, or, as he was called at his baptismo, Ricardo Valenzuela. They're all American-Mexicans.

   Throughout the last year-and-a-half performing stand-up comedy, part of my routine focuses on my cultural-identity crisis. Topics include cultural stereotyping, not knowing Spanish, and not knowing Salsa, which, by the way, is not Mexican, but rather Puerto Rican-Cuban. That fact doesn't seem to matter to mainstream America, and the salsa explosion that has swept the nation over the last ten-or-so years amplifies this. I don't expect any East Indians to know yoga, but I'm expected to know salsa.  

   The theater was packed; I'd never seen so many Mexicans in one room. There were a few thousand Mexican women. I'd never seen so much eyeliner in one room. The two warm-up acts were a white guy and a black guy. At first I was scared for them, not sure how the Latino crowd would accept the two comics. I was only projecting my own issues. The crowd was welcoming. I've never performed in front of an all-Latino crowd. I'm not certain how they would accept me. I've done shows for black crowds, white crowds, and mixed crowds, but never Latino crowds. Marabina's nephew, Ernie G, is a Latino comedian. He's used to Latino audiences. I'm not. For some reason I'm afraid they would not accept me. Is it because I haven't accepted myself, always trying to be more or less American, or more or less Mexican?

   For years I tried to be more American, whatever the hell that means. I think that means to be more white-acting. I sipped coffee at Starbucks, watched episodes of Felicity, and made sure to speak perfect English. Which, by the way, would not be perfect if you were to talk to an Englishman; we don't speak English here, we speak American.

   Other times I tried to be more Mexican, whatever the hell that means also. I tried to listen to Spanish radio, and eat more Tapatio hot sauce, which is not really Mexican, but made in Vernon, California. Now Cholula, that's Mexican, and made in Mexico. Other times I drank Corona and had shots of Jose Cuervo tequila. Eating at Pollo Loco was also part of my training – madness, utter madness.

   What am I trying to prove, and to who(m), am I trying to prove it? Am I displaying my Stars and Stripes for my father, or to the people in the audience? Am I trying to shove my Latin-flavor into my mother’s face, or the faces of my old high school buddies?

   Put it this way - does a cat need to chase more birds to prove that it's a cat? Does a dog need to catch more Frisbees to prove that it's a dog? Does a snake need to bite you on the ass to prove that it's a snake? Nooo. Nooo. Then neither do I need to prove anything to you, or to my family, or to myself. When someone asks me, as they often do, "What are you?" I'll tell them exactly what I am. I'm a bird-chasing, Frisbee-catching, ass-biter. I'm an American-Mexican.

 

 

 

 

 

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