domingo, 27 de octubre de 2013


Black is bad.
I cannot talk about black people.
I apologize about that term, I wanted to say African Americans. The reason is we don’t have African Americans in Mexico. You know, they would still be called African Americans if they were born in Mexico, because Mexico is in America -the continent- more specifically, in North America. So, I am not allowed to talk about African American culture, and I have learned that I am not even allowed to say the word black. I have learned that in just one month. You must forgive me, I’ve found that talking in NY is the most complicated thing, not just because of the language, but because of the things I cannot say because I may- or may not- be offending someone. It is complicated. I cannot say black. I cannot say white either. So I have to find a way to describe a person but I cannot talk about their height either, or their weight, or their hair. I have to pretend to be blind. And for me, that’s very complicated.
To define a person, or to define you as a person in America –the country- is very complicated. I don’t know who I am anymore! I don’t know if I’m Hispanic, or Latin, I just know I’m Mexican. I’m white (sorry if I offend anyone with that affirmation) but I don’t know where I come from. My blood is Indigenous, Spanish, Arabic – because of the 5 centuries the Moors occupied Spain- so when someone says: “I am Polish-Irish-Jewish” I just think to myself “Wow, they must really know themselves” or, that maybe, just maybe, knowing where you come from is extremely important in this country.
I am just Mexican. All kinds of traditions mixed on a melting pot. We have people of every color and flavor, we have a lot of brown people too. Excuse me, I don’t know if brown is a bad word too. I don’t know what’s the problem with color in this country.
So, I cannot talk about the African American culture. I can only talk about my landlord. He is young and tall and when he talks the words sound like silk. He has such a low voice tone that hearing him in the hallway makes me feel warm in my heart. He dances when he explains things, and on Summer nights, he and his family use to sit on the porch and enjoy the little breeze. I have three churches on my street and on Sunday, I am delighted by the beautiful clothes the people wear. I am so lucky that I can listen to the songs, even inside my own apartment, which makes me happy.
But in just a month, I have learned that I am not supposed to talk about that. In a month, I have learned that I have to pretend to be blind, and that is better to be quiet, or people may get offended.
My neighbor wanted to ask me if I wrote in English or Spanish, but instead of Spanish she said “Mexican”. She was so embarrassed. And I thought to myself: Why would I be offended because someone said I write in Mexican?
Maybe Mexican is a bad word too in America. I’m sorry, I’m still learning.