Hispanic Fanatic

I don’t follow celebrity gossip, mostly because I’ve never managed to work up interest in the desperate actions of shallow people who make a thousand times more money than I do. My antipathy is also because celebrities so rarely say anything that truly shocks me.

Therefore, it was with great surprise that I ran into this recent quote from singer/songwriter Alicia Keys:

“I’m not Latina, even though I would love to be and many people do think I am.”

She has officially shocked me. The reason is because I’ve never heard of a white or black person who actually wanted to be Hispanic.

Minorities who want to be white are commonplace. The perception that life is easier for members of the majority culture is well-ingrained.

And if there is a second most-coveted ethnicity, we can all agree that it is black. This desire has lead to a surplus of white rappers and a cavalcade of unintentionally hilarious wannabes slouching their way down the street.

Therefore, a beautiful and successful non-Hispanic woman yearning to be a Latina is not something I would have predicted. Such proclamations have the dangerous potential to make us hip.

Because Ms. Keys is a mixture of black and white, people are apparently confused about her race. So nobody will correct her if she claims Hispanic blood. I encourage her to follow her heart on this one.

Let her proclaim an affinity for salsa and a tendency to hug total strangers. Allow her to speak rapidly and refer to distant relations as cousins. And nudge her into swaying her hips to anything remotely rhythmic and becoming subsumed with Catholic guilt.

In this way, she can inch toward achieving that Latina status she so admires.

So I was early in my tenure as a lowly editorial assistant at a New York City publishing house. At this particular company, 5:01 pm of each Friday marked The Running of The EAs. At that moment, every poorly compensated editorial assistant in the building sprinted for the elevator. I myself once came close to leaving my footprint in the chest of my boss, who had gotten between me and the exit with her banal wish that I “have a nice weekend.”

Once we hit the street, the EAs swarmed around one another in an unruly mob. We were like hopped-up worker ants without a queen, temporarily mystified about what to do next. We bounced around in random conversation, annoyed the passerby on Fifth Avenue, and spilled over into the street until finally, one of us asked what bar we were hitting tonight.

Because this was one of my first jobs out of college, I figured that every company was like this. It seemed that a staple of corporate life was that dozens of fun people regularly met outside the doors of their building, then walked to a bar together, where they would get drunk or make out with each other or get their all-time favorite song played repeatedly on the jukebox until it all broke up through exhaustion or the need for actual food (usually around midnight). Needless to say, a decade removed from both my twenties and New York City, I see that quitting time more often means shuffling to the parking lot and revving up the SUV for the long, solo ride home.

But at this point in history, it was all about going to a Greenwich Village hole with your peers. So I walked with them down the streets and avenues of Manhattan, a roving band of merrymakers who had little in common besides the fact that we all hated our jobs and were really loud.

When we got to the bar (an old favorite) on this night, we quickly took over the backroom by the pool table, which was our custom. To my concern, however, we had apparently used up all our witty banter on the walk through the Village, and now we had nothing to say. Perhaps it was because were only on the second round, so the alcohol hadn’t yet kicked in.

Regardless, it was going to be awhile before someone got drunk enough to say something idiotic or profound or both. So I took it upon myself to jumpstart conversation.

“OK, everybody,” I said. “Guess my race!”

One would think that, with the fragile state of race relations in this country, such a demand would prompt even more awkward silence or perhaps some aghast stares. In certain company, it’s more proper to grab an acquaintance’s hand and blow your nose into it while revealing a dark sexual secret. At least then you wouldn’t have to talk about race.

But this was a young, multiracial crowd in New York City, and I figured the odds were in my favor. Indeed, I had barely finished saying the words before an EA shouted, “Korean!”

“Wrong,” I said. “Drink up.”

“Iranian!” said another.

“Drink up.” I responded.

“Mexican,” an EA yelled.

“Be more specific,” I said. “Or less. Either way, drink up.”

It wasn’t long, of course, before I heard “Hispanic,” and I said that I would have also accepted Latino or El Salvadoran. But the game was on. For awhile, we swigged beer and shouted at each other about our ancestors.

Was that EA really Lithuanian-Brazilian? Was the other one half-black, half-white? And was Jewish a sufficient answer to a drinking game based on race? By the time we got to the Japanese-German girl, conversation was flowing more easily, and my job was done.

We never played the game again, and I’m sure that by the end of the evening, most EAs had forgotten who was a quarter-Swedish and who had been raised by a Puerto Rican stepfather.

But maybe we had opened a dialogue on the thorniest issue facing our great country, which would lead to major breakthroughs and the resolution of all the problems that gnaw at our national character.

Or perhaps it was just a way to speed up getting shit-faced on a Friday night.

Yes, I’m sure that was it.

And in any case, unlike old standbys such as “President” or “I Never,” this drinking game has a fundamental flaw. With any given crowd, you can only play it once.

The most wretched sounds in creation are reserved for the phrase “like fingernails on a blackboard.” Despite the fact that blackboards are antiquated (does anybody even use them anymore?), the simile holds up across generations. So why does this noise inspire such universal pain and queasiness?

Well, evolutionary scientists have pointed out that the screech of fingernails on a blackboard is similar to the howls of certain monkeys, who reserve the shriek for emergency situations, such as when a predator is approaching. The theory, then, is that our primate ancestors let loose with a spine-chilling cacophony to give the subtle message “Holy shit! A leopard is closing in, let’s get the fuck out of here!” Millions of years later, a portion of our brain tells us that this particular noise is bad and it’s time to freak out.

It’s a fascinating theory, and one that verifies our common ancestry. It’s something to think about as we divide into our respective tribes and bellow at each other over minor differences in skin color or facial characteristics or vocal inflection.

If we’re all just monkeys in the same troop, why are we brimming with hostility for one another? If we could band together millions of years ago for the good of our species on the Serengeti Plain, why do so many of us melt down if the next-door neighbor turns out to be darker or lighter than us?

At one point, we could get along, but as our supposedly big brains developed, we turned on each other. The group has fragmented, with homicidal results that you’ll never see in a capuchin. It’s enough to make Darwin weep.

By the way, our monkey ancestry is also theorized to be the reason why total strangers feel compelled to touch a pregnant woman’s belly. It’s apparently a drive in primates to verify that the baby inside is ok and that the next generation will be healthy. So if you’re pregnant and get annoyed whenever somebody reaches for a belly rub, just let out a howler monkey screech and watch the offender scurry into the treetops.

Last week, a Latina filed a lawsuit because her victory in the Miss California USA pageant was rescinded. She claims that the pageant’s organizers changed their minds about her fitness for this crucial role after they heard her speaking Spanish to “certain vendors,” an unquestionably shady group. She’s alleging racial bias and asking for a cool half-million.

I have no idea if her case has any validity. Maybe her crown was taken back because she got snippy with the runner-up, or she has garlic breath, or she doesn’t fit into the size negative-four dress that’s mandatory for beauty queens, or her pledge to work for world peace was a little short on the specifics. I don’t know.

But if her version of the case is correct, it sets a bad precedent – not for beauty pageants, because nobody gives a damn about them. No, if she was ditched because she’s Hispanic, it’s beyond ominous.

You know what that would mean, don’t you? That’s right. Now even our hot women aren’t immune from discrimination.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve been dealing with car problems as of late. In short, my decade-old deathtrap is finally headed for the scrap heap. What was the final blow? What incident pushed the aging metal and chrome over the edge and into oblivion? I can’t be sure, but I think getting sideswiped a few weeks ago finished the car off.

I always did have a bad feeling about that one particular intersection. It may be hyperbole to call it the most dangerous stretch of asphalt in my city, but it always made me nervous.

I drive through it on my commute home from work, and whenever I got past it safely, I gave a prayer of thanks to my Mayan ancestors… ok, that part really is hyperbole.

Nevertheless, it’s a precarious crossroads. And the other evening, my paranoia justified itself (as it often does) when some dickhead plowed into my car as I was driving through the intersection.

I had the right of way when the guy in the minivan tried to turn left in front of me. He succeeded only in whapping the side of my car.

I was, to put it delicately, fucking pissed. I motioned for him to pull over, and he nodded and turned as if to go around the block and circle back. Five minutes later, two things became simultaneously clear: He wasn’t returning, and this was a hit-and-run.

My only witness was a dyslexic good Samaritan, a woman who claimed to have noted the guy’s license plate but had jotted down four digits too many. So I just drove home in my dinged car. When I told my wife that the guy had panicked and driven off, she said, “Maybe you scared him when you got angry.”

I hadn’t considered that. Here was this frazzled Anglo in a minivan who had broadsided an obviously furious Hispanic. For all he knew, I was going to get out of my car and knife him. Perhaps he thought I was riding dirty (Latino variation), or maybe he figured I was a Hmong gang member because you never can tell the differences among all those dark people, especially at night. The funny thing is that I was probably more Italian at the moment, with the wild hand gestures and agitated facial contortions.

In any case, I have to wonder if he would have pulled over and exchanged insurance information if I had been blonde.

But why do I have to even consider these things? It’s not enough that he jacked up my rates and took off. It’s not sufficient that he put the kibosh on my car. Now I have to ponder whether or not I’ve been stereotyped and slurred. This is the way your mind works when you’re not in the majority, whether you want it to or not.

Either way, I can’t prove a thing. My only satisfaction is that I know his car was more damaged than mine was. His headlight popped off, after all.

So I imagine him speeding home to the suburbs with one beam flickering, his mind racing to get his story straight for when his wife asks what the hell happened to the minivan. I can only assume that he will wipe the cold sweat from his brow, embrace his wife in sweet relief, and say, “I had to run away, honey. The guy was Hispanic or something.”

Yesterday marked the 40^th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King. Media coverage of the event featured numerous “what if he had lived” scenarios, ignoring the fact that so many racists had the man marked for death that he had about as much chance of getting out of the 1960s alive as I do of walking my dog in the Mariana Trench.

King set such high standards of spiritual clarity, personal courage, and captivating intelligence that even white supremacists had to admit their theories of racial inferiority had a glaring exception. How else could a Klansman explain this guy?

Hispanics, of course, don’t have a King equivalent. When cultural leaders are listed, we usually get Cesar Chavez. It sounds like he was a great leader and principled individual, but let’s be blunt. Chavez simply does not have the moral authority or historical impact of Martin Luther King. Maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but one was a Nobel Prize winner who gave one of the most stirring speeches in history, inspired millions of people to action, revolutionized American culture, was martyred for his cause, and got an official holiday named for him. The other won marginal rights for people who pick lettuce. Both have streets named for them in many cities, although in most cases, these roads pass through shady parts of town and change names back once they leave the hood or barrio.

To be fair, there is no Martin Luther King of the gay-rights movement either, or an Asian American of such stature, or so on. King was the pinnacle of social leaders.

And now, perhaps we are past the point in American history where any one person can become a powerful symbol and instigator of change. We’re too entrenched or cynical or hyperinformed to yank people onto a pedestal and leave them be.

But just in case we aren’t, is it too much to ask that the next icon be Hispanic? 

When I graduated from college, I was one of about 500 Hispanic students on campus. At that time, the undergrad population of my alma mater was almost 30,000 people (yes, it was a big school). So Latino representation was less than two percent. For the other 98 percent of the students, spotting a Latino undergrad was about as likely as picking up a Phi Beta Kappa supermodel at a Metallica concert.

In my four years of college, I met only two other Hispanic students, and I didn’t become close friends with either of them.

One was a Chicano guy who worked with me at a campus laboratory, where our jobs consisted of washing test tubes and wiping down centrifugal-force machines. He didn’t talk much, and seemed, in fact, to be actually resistant to speech, like it was against his principles. This was unfortunate because it was a boring job and there wasn’t much to do besides scrub, talk, and ponder how many carcinogens you were inhaling.

The other Hispanic was a Puerto Rican woman who, while clearly intelligent, was unparalleled in her capacity to be humorless. She was not just angry most of the time; she exhibited eye-popping rage. Woe to the professor who disagreed with her verbose insights. Every comment in class was provocation for her to start a metaphysical debate that featured vocab-dropping like “fecundity” and “juxtaposition” and “vis-à-vis,” all delivered in a mesmerizingly earnest and fierce tone. The last time I saw her, she attempted to draw me into an argument over the true definition of art, as if the two of us would come to a definitive conclusion if we were just intensely serious enough about it.

I can’t tell you if these two individuals – a sullen loner and a confrontational intellectual – were representative of the Latino population at my school. Like I said, while I was there, I never met anyone else who was brown besides them and my own reflection in the mirror.

So does this discrepancy still exist? Hispanics are supposed to be taking over the country (I hear it all the time on talk radio, so it must be true). And will ivory towers be the last line of defense for ivory people?

Well, I am pleased to report that the latest stats from my alma mater (covering through 2006) show that Hispanic undergrads now number almost 900. That means there are almost twice as many Latinos on my old campus as back in the day (strangely enough, every last one of them is physically attracted to that cute blonde girl in Geology 210, but that will be the subject of another post). We even outnumber blacks on campus, which is really freaky.

The overall student population has stayed the same, so Hispanics have cracked the three-percent barrier… Well, I guess that arbitrary milestone is cause for celebration.

The larger question, of course, is why does a group that makes up 15 percent of America constitute only three percent of the students at a top university? Again, that will be addressed in a future post. For now, let’s just acknowledge that incremental progress is still forward motion.

All this statistical good news has made me reconsider the invitation I recently got from my university’s Hispanic Alumni Association. They want me to attend a campus reunion. It sounds like an exciting time.

I hear both members of the association will be there.

I’m actually posting this a day late, but I would be remiss if I didn’t wish everyone a happy St. Patrick’s Day. I admit that I do this, however, with a certain cultural smugness. This is because, by my very self-definition, I am fanatical about all things Hispanic. But I am also part Irish.

In fact, I am among the few U.S. residents who can apply for Irish citizenship without having to go through naturalization or residency requirements. The reason I can do this, while many people named McInerney and O’Brien cannot, is because my paternal grandfather was born in Ireland (he got off the boat at Ellis Island with a thick brogue and everything). Ergo, as a direct descendent, I can become a citizen of the Emerald Isle.

Interestingly, the laws for the Latino side of me are stricter. Grandparents don’t cut it. In general, you need at least one parent who was born in a Latin American country. But victory is mine, because I have that link. My mother is a native of El Salvador, so I can apply for citizenship there too.

As such, I could theoretically receive triple citizenship, becoming what I presume would be the world’s first American-Salvadoran-Irish citizen. I’m sure there are laws against such concepts, including quite possibly laws of physics and evolution. Furthermore, I have no plans to look more thoroughly into this, because I am quite happy to be a U.S. citizen (who wouldn’t be?).

But it’s still kind of cool to conjure.

Right away, I’m likely to piss somebody off. This is because I’m wading into the whole “Hispanic” vs. “Latino” lexicon fistfight. You may not know this, particularly if you are of the Anglo persuasion, but there is an ongoing debate over which term accurately identifies people whose ancestors come from somewhere south of modern-day Texas. 

This area encompasses over twenty countries spread around Central America, South America, and the Caribbean. Add to this fact that many of these countries have multiple cultures with diverse customs and even different languages, and it quickly becomes clear that coming up with one word to identify all these people is like calling everything you put in your mouth “food.”

But in America, at least, we have narrowed the choices down to “Latino” or “Hispanic.” Each comes loaded with political baggage. Say “Latino” to a brown-skinned person, and you might receive a snappish “I don’t speak Latin!” in response. Refer to someone as “Hispanic” and you could hear that the word refers to Spain, the country that “raped my ancestors” or “subjugated the Aztecs” or some other historical atrocity that constitutes a fresh wound to people who have taken too many poli-sci classes.

Special note: the word “Spanish” applies only to a native of Spain or to the language. We tend to hate it when we’re called “Spanish.”

To add to the confusion, many people want their home country to be a reference point. This is particularly big with the Dominicans, the Cubans, and the Puerto Ricans. And self-described Chicanos are likely to seethe with hot-blooded rage (now there’s a stereotype!) if they are called anything other than their preferred term.

But I simply do not have the patience or computer memory to start every post with “speaking of Ecuadorians and Bolivians and Guatemalans and Quechua speakers and Garifuna immigrants…”

So I’ve decided to use the terms “Hispanic” and “Latino” to encompass the whole damn ethnic pie. And I will use the words interchangeably. I do this because I think both words are perfectly legit, and there’s no need for a lucha over them. I also do this for the sake of linguistic variety in these posts. Along those lines, I will probably also sprinkle in the terms “brown scourge,” “swarthy dudes,” “hot little tamales,” and “God’s gift to the Western hemisphere,” depending on context.

Therefore, don’t look too deeply into my word choice. The politics of this blog will be clear enough without getting into the hidden subtext of terms I picked just because I was tired and began cutting and pasting at random.

Now that we have that settled, I should mention that regardless of the word I chose, there’s likely to be some debate over what person/group/socioeconomic entity I’m referring to. After all, who constitutes a Latino is often up for grabs.  For example, a half-Anglo blogger in the Midwest (ahem) is probably not whom pollsters are referring to when they laud the monolithic “Hispanic community.”

But that’s another post.