About two weeks ago while on the road to nowhere, I noticed what I guessed was an earlier model Nissan Maxima. I could only guess because I could only see the roof of the car going by my window. It was so low to the ground you could clean it's underside with dental floss. It's wheels were small and fat, wrapped around garish, gold mags, and protruded from the car like warts. It was no surprise to me to see that it's driver was a young hispanic man, his head bobbing vigorously due to the lack of shock absorbers on his car.
It was then that I felt very sad and alone.
It was then that I realised that I don't think I had ever been truly in touch with my own Mexican-ness.
I've always called myself a "cocanut" (brown on the outside, white on the inside). I've accepted it. I have no problem with the fact that I wear shoes and not "choos." I am O.K. with the fact that when someone offers me soup made with a cow's stomach lining, I can say, "Could I just have a sandwich?" I've decided I can go through life without the Virgin Mary etched on my car's back window and without the naked woman mudflaps. And while all of this would sound exceedingly
racist coming out of anyone else's mouth, the way I see it I'm just the pot calling the kettle brown.
But I must admit there are some things that I miss about not enjoying the jull "Mexican Experience." Most notably the ability to speak Spanish. I guess it's a good thing I don't travel down south often. Places like San Antonio can be pretty embarassing. The inability to speak Spanish there is like being a small-penised man at a John Holmes look-a-like contest (if you know what I mean and I think you do!).
Before anyone is smartass enough to ask: No, That statement is not an admission to any other short-comings.
©1999 shut up & dance.com
