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It was stifling in the church. The small white fans plotted along the cathedral ceiling did little to circulate the sweltering 90 degree August air. Sticking to the wooden pew in my yellow summer dress I dabbed at the perspiration at my temples and let out a hearty sigh. It was 2:30, the ceremony should have begun at 2. My cousins sitting in front of me turn around and say "Mexican time is nationwide." They chuckle and I laugh--a personal politically incorrect jab that was right on the money. Finally at 2:40 the ceremony starts and I watch my cousin Juan wait in his tux at the altar for his bride to be, Gabriela, as she gracefully walks down the aisle.
A full Catholic mass, the wedding was filled with Mexican traditions--the exchanging of pesos between wife and husband, the draping of a lasso around the newly married couple, the bestowing of a bible by the husbands family--the works. At the reception there were guitar players singing mariachi music, and salsa dancing by all those able.
Often at these family events I feel like an outside spectator. Half Mexican, a quarter Assyrian and a quarter hodge-podge of Native American and God knows what, I have come to look more gringo than anything else. Lighter skin, brown hair, brown eyes, no discernibly ethnic features; I am a 3rd generation melting pot for my mother and father's lineage.
So at times like this one, I sit back and observe. Listening to the Latin strums of the guitar and the American- Spanish accents of my relatives, I soak in this cultural experience as if every moment I'm there is another chance to grow, another worldly exposure. When I hear them speaking Spanish it makes me feel special, different, unique, as if I'm apart of something fundamentally American.
To hear my grandmother speak Spanish reminds me of how in the 1940s she picked up her son, got on a train in Juarez Mexico, and met my grandfather in Gary, Indiana. How she decided that this country held promise for her and everything she held most dear. And while she retained the language of her native country, she embraced the life offered by a new one.
When most of my contemporaries hear Spanish nowadays, this is not what they see. What people of my generation and people of my parent's generation see is an invasion, a degeneration, a crumbling infrastructure with lost job opportunities and lost benefits. More to the point, what they see is a loss of identity.
I do not deny that there are problems that need to be worked out in this country's immigration policies. A need for systemized protocols and united efforts to organize the way people arrive in the US is incredibly important and necessary. Just like everything else, we need to choose the best and safest road for those at home as well as abroad.
What I do have trouble understanding is the frantic and disturbing abhorrence of many in this country towards immigrants, those of Hispanic origin specifically. Given the current state of the world and our actions as a nation the move toward isolationism can be expected or even understood, but I find it disconcerting to see the energy and detestation exerted over what appears to be a minor issue in the larger scheme of things.
I could say that my stance on immigration is slanted considering my own background, however, even I can admit that when I receive phone calls for Visa Mastercards in Spanish, I become unnerved and irritated. I find myself thinking 'Speak English. That is the language of this country'.
But then, almost immediately I am torn between my dichotomous views of the issue. The image that my grandmother's gentle Spanish gives me about my family and my country, and the annoyance that seems to permeate every encounter I have with it during non-familial daily functions. The torn psyche of an American mutt--my national identity is founded in a mixture of cultures and traditions.
I guess the question that needs to be posed is what does it really mean to be American? White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant? English speaking, flag waving, die-hard patriot? Citizenship papers, green card, passport? My father's family came to this country and became US citizens and they still endured the harassment of those that viewed them as outsiders.
Is it the fear that this country is so fragile that it cannot withstand the influx of foreigners, most of which are seeking menial jobs that your average American would not consider? Is it that there is a criminal element among those crossing our borders that we do not believe our law enforcement officials are strong enough to take down? Is it the proud cultural traditions of those men and women that we fear will overshadow and overtake our own? Would we find comfort in their instant conformity?
These questions then beg another. What America are we trying to preserve by shutting out and, more importantly, fearing the diverse elements that made it what it is today?
With the violence and terror and devastation in this world I find it hard to funnel my anxieties into the men, women, and children crossing our southern border with their lives on their backs, hoping for a better future. In fact, upon this reflection, I feel almost comforted by their immigration. As if, in the face of everything that has gone wrong with this country, these people still find promise in our nation. They still believe in the opportunities it has to offer and the future they could build for themselves under its protection.
That is an America I feel is worth preserving.
Contact Malorie at m-medellin@northwestern.edu
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