When you look at me, within 3.2 seconds you will figure out that I’m Spanish. It’s quite obvious, it’s in my facial structure, my hair, my skin tone, and my ass. It is not, however, in my ankles, my hands, or my teeth. What you will not see is that I’m actually half Spanish, half German. No one ever stops me to ask if I’m German. That’s okay, I can’t see it either, but it’s there. Apparently, what kind of Spanish you are matters, especially to other people of Hispanic origin. Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Peruvian, Colombian, Spain Spanish. This is important, and it seems to aggravate people when they can’t identify me. This is later eclipsed by the rage that floods their faces when they find out that I do not speak a word of Spanish. “But you should! Is good language!” Yes, I am a disgrace to my (half) people. There’s a good chance that there would be riots in front of my home if these same individuals learned of the lengths I once went to in trying to hide that very heritage. I mean, really.
There is a girl that I used to be extremely afraid of. You’ve seen her a thousand times, I know it. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, one curl cemented to each of her temples; enormous hoop earrings dangle from her ears; black eyeliner doubles as lip liner, serving as a dark barrier that barely contains the blood red lipstick staining her mouth; tight clothing tries its darnedest to cover her curves, but ultimately fails because it’s two sizes too small; her feet are either squeezed into cheap platform shoes or are resting comfortably in overpriced sneakers. You’ve seen her at places like the mall, but you’re probably most familiar with her arguing with her boyfriend in a parking lot with her posse of clones surrounding her, bobbling their heads and adding in clever quips that would make an English teacher cringe.
In my teens and early twenties, I did everything in my power not to be this girl. My efforts often went unnoticed by the kind of boys who usually go for such creatures. I was perpetually invisible to the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboats I fantasized about while dodging advances from guys who wholeheartedly believed that rap stars were gods and found the sight of two (or more) girls fighting over them to be quite amusing, possibly even a turn-on. I stopped wearing hoop earrings of all sizes, I shunned lipstick, I straightened my naturally curly hair daily, I avoided the sun like a vampire, I listened to heavy rock music, and in high school I made sure that I took French to fill my foreign language requirement. I exhibited an amazing sense of control when I did NOT slap a guy when he called me J-Lo. He saw it as a compliment, I saw it as an insult.
I may or may not have even secretly envied Michael Jackson’s lightened skin. I won’t confirm or deny it, I’m just sayin’.
Image is extremely important to you when you’re young. Either I don’t have the energy to sustain that degree of indignation and paranoia, or I’ve simply grown up. Spanish women are beautiful, fiery creatures that many men adore, even some of those blond ones I was pining for ten years ago (I prefer brunettes now anyway). I’ve made peace with my hair and let it curl all it wants. I’ll wear any earrings I like. I’m even considering reinstating the accent mark I removed from my last name when I “Americanized” it so long ago. Self-acceptance is supposed to be healthy, or something.
I’ll be damned if I ever learn that language, though!
No comments:
Post a Comment