Sombreros and Poison
As a child, I never thought about my identity. The first time I had to reflect on how I identified was in a Poli Sci course on the topic of minorities in Israel. Soon after this, I started to question my identity. The question always came down to, am I more Mexican or more American? And I can tell you guys with all surety that until today I can't give a straight answer. I'm an American by birth and I uphold certain values that some would deem as "American values" but for me these values are universal.
I'm Mexican by descent. I speak Spanish-the Mexican kind, cook Mexican food, listen to Mexican music, follow traditions like using Vicks Vapor Rub when I'm sick, because it doesn't matter what I'm sick with, Vicks Vapor Rub or 7 UP can fix it. But most importantly I never go a day without eating chile. It's funny because my mom warns me not to eat so much chile but hours later I find her eating chile.
It's very likely that I will never have a straight answer to the question but why does it matter?
Why should I? Let's be frank, there are times when it's more convenient to identify as one and not the other. It also depends on your immediate environment. It's likely that if I'm at a Mexican Restaurant that I'll feel more Mexican than when I'm at IHOP. But sometimes the opposite happens. I remember going to Mexico and feeling more American than Mexican or sometimes when I go to places where there aren't a lot of Mexicans I feel very Mexican. At this rate, I'll never have a definite answer of how I identify. All I know is that I live a much different life as a Mexican- American.
What I thought was a normal life as a child turned out to be a very abnormal. I grew up in a single parent home, my mom worked mainly in the fields as a seasonal agricultural worker. My dad left when I was 3 and I haven't seen him since. Many people always tell me that they're sorry when they hear this but I'm not sorry- heck, I'm grateful he left. I don't blame him for leaving and I have no hatred towards him. The reason being that I'm sure I wouldn't have pursued higher education as much as I did had he been here.
After my dad walked out of our lives we moved around A LOT. And I mean a lot. I must have gone to at least 13 different schools. We lived in mobile homes, RVs, rooms, and even garages. Naturally, this affected me in many ways. I grew up rather quickly and took on responsibility. The responsibility of fathering my siblings to my best ability but no child wants to be fathered by their older sister. Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if my older brother was present in our lives to father us. But my older brother has spent several years locked away first in juvenile hall, then jail, and currently in prison. Life dealt him difficult cards and even though he tried to give us advice when we were children it's not the same as having a father figure, especially not for my little brother who had to grow up in a house full of girls. He didn't even have his own room until he went off to college.
Surprisingly and against all odds my siblings and I have become successful young adults. Recently, I had a conversation with my little brother about not being able to relate to our fellow classmates and colleagues. I went to a large public university and throughout my time there I felt alone. I never understood why but I'm beginning to understand it more clearly. I guess for me it has been difficult to relate to others because of how I grew up, the struggles I went through, and the socio-economic disparity between most of my acquaintances and I. I've also found that it's hard to relate to others when you've never seen Mean Girls. It's difficult and almost unfair to expect others who haven't struggled your same struggles to understand you.
I remember an instance when I was in high school whee a girl said that everyone is born with the same opportunities. I was furious, how could she be so ignorant? She herself had been adopted into a middle-class family. It's baffling that some people actually think that everyone is born with the same opportunities. But like I said when I was growing up I never thought about any of it; not of identity, not of privilege, not of racism. And although I do recognize that there is institutionalized racism, I'm still a strong believer in the idea that people can become whatever they want regardless of their race, ethnicity, culture, or socio-economic disadvantages through hard work, commitment, persistence, and dedication. And although there are naysayers out there, I'm living proof of it and so are my siblings.
But what grinds my gears the most is that some people have taken things to a whole other level. Ideas like cultural appropriation, ideas that have become common in the Western world and have no place in the rest of the world. Privilege and ideas like the aforementioned go hand in hand. In places like Central and South America and the Middle East, these ideas are not prevalent because people are more focused on working hard to bring food to the table to feed their family.
This summer when I was in Vermont doing a language program. One of my friends asked me if it was okay with me to wear a sombrero which is traditional headgear in Mexico and Central America. My first thoughts were 'of course, why would it bother me? Why is he asking? Why would I mind if he did?' I told him yes and that I didn't mind but a few seconds later another individual recommended he not wear it because it was cultural appropriation. I was appalled. How could this western, french girl possibly believe that she had a say in this and that it could stump my response? After all it's my culture. How could she possibly think she could speak for me or for Mexicans.
Did she really think she was correct to tell him and then turn to me to tell me that it was wrong of him to wear my culture when I just told him I didn't mind? How could she tell me how I should feel about it? My friend wasn't doing anyone harm wearing it, he wasn't mocking Mexicans, he wasn't making money from wearing the sombrero either. I didn't see a problem but she did and had no issue with telling me how I should feel about it. Once more a white westerner was dictating and telling a colored person how they should feel about their culture.
Days after the encounter I came across this great poem by Adi, a Yemeni Israeli. Her grandparents and parents migrated to Israel. Adi is labeled as a Mizrahi-Jew. Mizrahi-Jews are Jews whose ancestors are from the Middle East or North Africa. Since the creation of the State of Israel Mizrahi-Jews have suffered from discrimination and institutionalized racism.
I have translated the poem below. Enjoy 馃槣
"I'm the Mizrahi" by Adi Caesar
Translated by Marisol Fernandez
"I'm the Mizrahi that you guys don't know.
I'm the Mizrahi that you guys aren't reminded of.
That knows how to recite all of the songs of Zohar Argov.
And reads Albert Camus and Bulgakov.
Mixes everything slowly, slowly.
On a small fire, black and white, meat and milk.
The vapors poison your blue and white skies.
What will you do to me?
I sleep in Hebrew, buy in English, love in Arabic.
Kapara al ha Suraq (I think its an idiom that mixes Hebrew and Arabic that translates to atonement for your secrets)
I whine in Mizrahi.
The revolution will not be televised, the revolution will not be televised.
Because on television there are only commercials with all kinds of blondes.
And maybe it's because of this that they called me in school, Cushite, during the recesses.
I'm in the middle not here and not here.
If I had to choose, I would choose Afro-Yemeni.
What will you do to me?
Don't tell me how to be Mizrahi.
Even if you read Edward Saeed.
Because I'm the Mizrahi that isn't scared of you.
Not at job interviews, not at admission committees, and not at airports.
Even though, you don't ask me a few questions.
With guilty eyes, that look for Arab remnants within me.
'For how much time did you come?
How much money do you have?
You didn't come here to work right?
You didn't come here to work right?'
I'm Mexican by descent. I speak Spanish-the Mexican kind, cook Mexican food, listen to Mexican music, follow traditions like using Vicks Vapor Rub when I'm sick, because it doesn't matter what I'm sick with, Vicks Vapor Rub or 7 UP can fix it. But most importantly I never go a day without eating chile. It's funny because my mom warns me not to eat so much chile but hours later I find her eating chile.
It's very likely that I will never have a straight answer to the question but why does it matter?
Why should I? Let's be frank, there are times when it's more convenient to identify as one and not the other. It also depends on your immediate environment. It's likely that if I'm at a Mexican Restaurant that I'll feel more Mexican than when I'm at IHOP. But sometimes the opposite happens. I remember going to Mexico and feeling more American than Mexican or sometimes when I go to places where there aren't a lot of Mexicans I feel very Mexican. At this rate, I'll never have a definite answer of how I identify. All I know is that I live a much different life as a Mexican- American.
What I thought was a normal life as a child turned out to be a very abnormal. I grew up in a single parent home, my mom worked mainly in the fields as a seasonal agricultural worker. My dad left when I was 3 and I haven't seen him since. Many people always tell me that they're sorry when they hear this but I'm not sorry- heck, I'm grateful he left. I don't blame him for leaving and I have no hatred towards him. The reason being that I'm sure I wouldn't have pursued higher education as much as I did had he been here.
After my dad walked out of our lives we moved around A LOT. And I mean a lot. I must have gone to at least 13 different schools. We lived in mobile homes, RVs, rooms, and even garages. Naturally, this affected me in many ways. I grew up rather quickly and took on responsibility. The responsibility of fathering my siblings to my best ability but no child wants to be fathered by their older sister. Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if my older brother was present in our lives to father us. But my older brother has spent several years locked away first in juvenile hall, then jail, and currently in prison. Life dealt him difficult cards and even though he tried to give us advice when we were children it's not the same as having a father figure, especially not for my little brother who had to grow up in a house full of girls. He didn't even have his own room until he went off to college.
Surprisingly and against all odds my siblings and I have become successful young adults. Recently, I had a conversation with my little brother about not being able to relate to our fellow classmates and colleagues. I went to a large public university and throughout my time there I felt alone. I never understood why but I'm beginning to understand it more clearly. I guess for me it has been difficult to relate to others because of how I grew up, the struggles I went through, and the socio-economic disparity between most of my acquaintances and I. I've also found that it's hard to relate to others when you've never seen Mean Girls. It's difficult and almost unfair to expect others who haven't struggled your same struggles to understand you.
I remember an instance when I was in high school whee a girl said that everyone is born with the same opportunities. I was furious, how could she be so ignorant? She herself had been adopted into a middle-class family. It's baffling that some people actually think that everyone is born with the same opportunities. But like I said when I was growing up I never thought about any of it; not of identity, not of privilege, not of racism. And although I do recognize that there is institutionalized racism, I'm still a strong believer in the idea that people can become whatever they want regardless of their race, ethnicity, culture, or socio-economic disadvantages through hard work, commitment, persistence, and dedication. And although there are naysayers out there, I'm living proof of it and so are my siblings.
But what grinds my gears the most is that some people have taken things to a whole other level. Ideas like cultural appropriation, ideas that have become common in the Western world and have no place in the rest of the world. Privilege and ideas like the aforementioned go hand in hand. In places like Central and South America and the Middle East, these ideas are not prevalent because people are more focused on working hard to bring food to the table to feed their family.
This summer when I was in Vermont doing a language program. One of my friends asked me if it was okay with me to wear a sombrero which is traditional headgear in Mexico and Central America. My first thoughts were 'of course, why would it bother me? Why is he asking? Why would I mind if he did?' I told him yes and that I didn't mind but a few seconds later another individual recommended he not wear it because it was cultural appropriation. I was appalled. How could this western, french girl possibly believe that she had a say in this and that it could stump my response? After all it's my culture. How could she possibly think she could speak for me or for Mexicans.
Did she really think she was correct to tell him and then turn to me to tell me that it was wrong of him to wear my culture when I just told him I didn't mind? How could she tell me how I should feel about it? My friend wasn't doing anyone harm wearing it, he wasn't mocking Mexicans, he wasn't making money from wearing the sombrero either. I didn't see a problem but she did and had no issue with telling me how I should feel about it. Once more a white westerner was dictating and telling a colored person how they should feel about their culture.
Days after the encounter I came across this great poem by Adi, a Yemeni Israeli. Her grandparents and parents migrated to Israel. Adi is labeled as a Mizrahi-Jew. Mizrahi-Jews are Jews whose ancestors are from the Middle East or North Africa. Since the creation of the State of Israel Mizrahi-Jews have suffered from discrimination and institutionalized racism.
I have translated the poem below. Enjoy 馃槣
"I'm the Mizrahi" by Adi Caesar
Translated by Marisol Fernandez
"I'm the Mizrahi that you guys don't know.
I'm the Mizrahi that you guys aren't reminded of.
That knows how to recite all of the songs of Zohar Argov.
And reads Albert Camus and Bulgakov.
Mixes everything slowly, slowly.
On a small fire, black and white, meat and milk.
The vapors poison your blue and white skies.
What will you do to me?
I sleep in Hebrew, buy in English, love in Arabic.
Kapara al ha Suraq (I think its an idiom that mixes Hebrew and Arabic that translates to atonement for your secrets)
I whine in Mizrahi.
The revolution will not be televised, the revolution will not be televised.
Because on television there are only commercials with all kinds of blondes.
And maybe it's because of this that they called me in school, Cushite, during the recesses.
I'm in the middle not here and not here.
If I had to choose, I would choose Afro-Yemeni.
What will you do to me?
Don't tell me how to be Mizrahi.
Even if you read Edward Saeed.
Because I'm the Mizrahi that isn't scared of you.
Not at job interviews, not at admission committees, and not at airports.
Even though, you don't ask me a few questions.
With guilty eyes, that look for Arab remnants within me.
'For how much time did you come?
How much money do you have?
You didn't come here to work right?
You didn't come here to work right?'
What will you do to me?
And here I stand in the center of Yemen(/Southern end of the Arabian Peninsula).
Far from the hunger periphery.
And I learned how to speak academically and to ride on route 25.
And to measure the distance between the brains and the heart.
Just in order to understand the path to my house.
Where mom and dad never pushed a book into my hand.
But they entwined their breath in mines at their own personal expense.
Every time that they took me to the municipal library,
every time that they begged 'Don't read in the dark, your eyes will be ruined.'
So I came out to the light.
What will you do to me?
And you guys are scolding
'If you stop talking about it, it won't exist anymore,
if you stop talking about it, it won't exist anymore,
Because today everyone marries everyone,
put Mizrahi music at the wedding.
Mizrahi music makes people happy.'
And inside my head, 'Love, help me, give me again her voice,
give me again the voice, give me again everything.'
And inside my head, chiming bells, 'Mom, mom open the door!'
My whole body trembles from the cold.
'Mom, mom open the door...'
There's a heavy load on my shoulders."
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