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March 18, 2007
If it’s a Global World, then why can’t I Be Chicano?
“It’s a global world,” my Time Magazine tells me—the only magazine I’ve brought with me to read.
A global world, eh? Then if it’s truly a global world, where everyone interacts with everyone else, whose to say that I can’t be Chicano, too?
Erich tells me that I should just be myself and Rosa uh-hums him in the background.
But, the fact is, if everyone (or, if a large number of people on the island, at least) think that I’m a Chicano, who’s to say that I can’t be? After all (without considering the biology of it all), what’s a Chicano anyway? Someone that feels a strong connection to Mexico? Someone that appreciates Mexican culture and diversity—a Mexico Profundo? Someone that has family with a strong past to this pais?
Does a Chicano even have to speak Spanish?
I think not. In fact, I know not.
And the fact is, there are many types of Chicanos, just as there are all types of Mexicans:
There are green eyed Mexicans. The rich blond Mexicans. The Mexicans with the faces of Arab shieks. The Jewish Mexicans. The Big-footed-as-German-Mexicans. The Leftover French Mexicans. The chaparrito-compact Mexicans. The Taramuhara-tall-as-a-desert-saguaro Mexicans. The Mediterranean Mexicans. The Mexicans with Tunisian eyebrows. The negrito Mexicans with double coasts. The Chinese Mexicans, and the Korean ones too. The curly-haired, freckled face, red-headed Mexicans. The jaguar-lipped Mexicans. The wide-as-a-Tula tree Zapotec Mexicans. The Lebanese Mexicans.
“Look,” I say to the two of them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say I don’t look Chicano. After all,” I say, “it’s only a name.”
And what’s in a name anyway?
During the morning, we went kayaking on the open ocean water. It was fun and incredibly difficult. Although after the first half-hour, I got incredibly sea-sick and ended up vomiting off the side of the kayak. I waited for the two of them back at the shore, taking some pictures.
Later in the day, we made our way to the beach again. I brought my homework to do—my essays on Mexico Profundo and passed the time in the sun.
The island really is an interesting place. And I’m not just talking about our personal experiences here.
A woman from the island that we met told us that we should walk the island to see the remnants and destruction left by hurricane Wilma within the year or two.
So, I made an effort to go walking the island. I walked on the Northern shore from the Western side to the Eastern side, andando and mirando.
Broken houses. Broken homes. Windows cracked on the sand. Garbage melting in the sun. Cement bricks—here, there. A pool that looked like it had been bombed a thousand bombs and a stairwell rising to nowhere. Maybe it was the stairway to heaven.
These are just some of the sights that I saw.
The destruction of Isla Holbox made me wonder about the type of federal disaster emergency system might have—or even if they have one at all.
Meeting the kind of helpful people on the island, I wondered how hard it was, or how hard it continues to be, for them to rebuild their lives.
Has paradise been paved? Or has it been left to decapitate in the brutal Mexican sun?
I don’t know, I’m not sure.
But I prayed for them, silently.
Posted by jlsumich at March 18, 2007 12:47 PM