Hispanic Fanatic

For decades, saying that you were Hispanic was analogous to saying, “I’m Mexican.” That’s no longer true, of course (and I’m not referring to the whole “Chicanos are different from Latinos” debate). Rather, Hispanic culture, like everything else in America – except for the Deep South branch of the Republican Party – has grown and evolved.

Recently, the Pew Hispanic Center issued a report revealing where all these foot soldiers in the Brown Invasion are coming from. As you can imagine, the top two demographics – the Beatles and Stones of Latino culture – are Mexican-Americans and Puerto Ricans. This is hardly a surprise, nor is the third-place finisher, Cuban-Americans, a shocker. As I’ve written before, Hispanic culture in the United States has often been relegated to East LA Chicanos, Nuyoricans, or Miami-based Cuban émigrés.

I was surprised, however, that number four on the list of Latino countries of origin is none other than my family’s homeland: El Salvador. The Dominican Republic comes in at number five.

These five countries account for the vast majority of Latinos in the United States, which isn’t so shocking when one considers that Mexican Americans alone account for more than sixty percent of the Hispanics in the United States.

The Center breaks down the traits of each group and contrasts them “with the characteristics of all Hispanics and the U.S. population overall.” That’s how I found out that Latinos who claim El Salvador as their country of origin are younger than the U.S. population but older than other Hispanics. I also found out that such Latinos have less education than other Hispanics, but they’re not as likely to have out-of-wedlock births. These are categories, of course, that no one wants to be tops in.

One thing caught my eye when going over the Center’s stats, however. People who responded to the survey were free to pick their country of origin, with few guidelines. As a result, the Center points out that “a person born in Los Angeles may identify his or her country of origin as Mexico. Likewise, some people born in Mexico may identify another country as their origin depending on the place of birth of their ancestors.”

So when it comes to counting Hispanics, it’s still an imprecise science.

Thanks to Betty for her generous comments on my last post (“The Horror, The Horror”). She’s correct that the “The Fog” is worth watching again and again.

Thanks also, of sorts, to Eva. I believe that she meant to comment my recent post “Mi Casa Es Su Casa…” but she posted to the wrong topic. However, I’ve decided to leave her remarks under the “About the Author” section for the time being, if for no other reason than people can see that I’m not being paranoid when I assert that Latinos are being blamed for the housing crises. Most interesting was Eva’s assertion that as soon as the Hispanics in her area were foreclosed upon, “the sun began to shine again.” This verifies what I’ve thought all along: Latinos can control the weather.

Speaking of Latino-centric disasters, by now you’ve no doubt heard about the killer flu that originated in Mexico. Dozens of people are dead in that country, and cases have sprung up in the United States. In all likelihood, this virus – an offshoot of swine flu – will run its course long before the country turns into something out of Stephen King’s “The Stand.” Just in case, however, I suggest you check out that sore throat that’s been bothering you.

The flu outbreak has forced me to tack on an unpleasant addendum to my recent post about hugging. As I stated in that piece, Latinos love to hug, and warm embraces of even casual acquaintances are frequent in Hispanic culture. As such, it must have come as a shock to the Mexican populace that, in addition to fearing for their lives, they are being told to avoid hugging and that there should be “no kissing to say hello” and “no close contact” with others.

That’s right – the Latino impulse to embrace people may help to spread the virus. As such, good Hispanics everywhere must abruptly turn into Swedes and Norwegians, out of the fear that a quick squeeze of a friend could lead to an unpleasant death for everyone involved.

Of course, being forced to limit physical interaction is psychologically upsetting to people of any culture, but even more so for Latinos. As one Mexican woman said, “Mexico is a social place. People like to go out and be together. The sickness has taken that away.”

And it’s also taken away, at least temporarily, the Latino drive to be affectionate and demonstrative. That means no hugging, my amigos.

The most disturbing thing about this epidemic – aside from the inconvenient potential it has to cause whole civilizations to collapse – is that it has turned what we always viewed as a virtue into a detriment.

Latinos now have to wonder if maybe those Scandinavians, with their virus-killing cold weather and contagion-limiting handshakes, are on to something after all.

Recently, I was introduced to the art of Martin Ramirez. His strange and twisted life story can be summarized as follows:

A young Mexican man comes to the United States in 1925 to find work. Years later, the Great Depression hits, he winds up on the street, and he gets picked up the cops. He is thrown into a nuthouse in California, where he lives for the rest of his life. Over the course of his 32 years in a mental institution, he creates some of the most stunning artwork of the era. With no formal training, and often, without any art supplies beyond stray objects that he found in the building, he creates mesmerizing images that address immigration, poverty, and insanity. He has public exhibitions of his work, and critics hail him as brilliant. Yet his schizophrenia is so severe that he rarely speaks to anyone, and he never comprehends that his pictures have provoked such adoration in the outside world. He dies, still insane as fuck, in 1963 at the age of 68.

If he had been a crazy Brit or a mad German, would his treatment in America have been the same? Might his genius be better recognized and nurtured today, rather than shut off in a padded cell? And what of our social services that took care of an immigrant instead of chucking him back across the border? How would that work in the current political climate?

These are all valid questions, but all I can offer in this post is a gateway to his art. Looking at his work makes you feel like you’re taking a warped train ride (one of his favorite reoccurring motifs) through a tortured imagination, destination unknown or even irrelevant. If you get a chance, check out a Ramirez exhibition, and let the Fanatic know what you think of it.