I was born and raised in the United States of America, spending most of my life within its borders. Yet, though I was not able to articulate it cogently at the time, much about this country chafed me intensely even as a child: its materialism, worship of avarice, arrogance, treatment of culture as just another marketplace commodity, and conformist collective “individualism”. Paradoxically, I was also sometimes prone to bouts of wild patriotism only a child, the first-born of immigrants to boot, could be capable of, avidly collecting cards commemorating the troops and weaponry of Operation Desert Storm, and being suspended from school for beating up classmates who profaned the national anthem with improvised bawdy lyrics.
Though I “pass” for white (a double-edged sword that) and my English diction bears no trace of the friction, the effortful straining, the residual savor of the ancestral language so often apparent in first generation American children, Spanish shall remain to my dying breath the realm of my innermost thoughts and feelings. Because of this intimacy with a language which was fed to me from earliest consciousness like mother’s milk, a permanent sense of apartness and even estrangement from mainstream American culture was fostered; of being an outsider edging along the periphery, gazing cooly at the panoply of life jostling inside.
Somewhat in the manner of Mahler’s famous “thrice homeless” remark, I have neither ever quite experienced a seamless feeling of “belonging” amongst my immigrant-descent peers. My parents came from a nation with virtually no representation in mainstream America or even within the resident Hispanophone community, thereby creating a distance between myself from the Mexicans and Central Americans ubiquitous in my hometown. Because of my family’s peculiar Spanish dialect—to say nothing of how peculiar I found the dialects of my peers—I was regarded as something of a foreigner among them. At the same time, I pined for my family’s homeland, my ardor stoked ever more so by how distant it was. In the end, that country—my parents’ homeland—no longer exists, probably never did; it remains solely as an ineffable ideal residing within the chambers of my heart. “German culture is wherever I am”, Thomas Mann proudly proclaimed. In my infinitely smaller way, perhaps, I feel that my existence helps to do the same for what once was the cradle of my parents’ youthful dreams.
“You’re not really Latino,” I was told in high school by a flesh globule with a thick, oily ponytail that rested upon one side of a cheap, 1990s imitation guayabera. “Your people are not like ours.” Had he a semblance of a neck, then it may have been possible for him to crook his head in thought and contemplate the root significance of the term “Latino”. Of course, he still would have had to stimulate thought in order to accomplish this, a feat that with or without neck would remain forever elusive.
Some time ago I was startled to discover a diary entry by H. L. Mencken which seemed to speak to me directly from across the chasm of time and space, so profoundly did I sympathize with him:
My grandfather, I believe, made a mistake when he came to this country[...] I believe my chances in Germany would have been at least as good as they have been in America, and maybe a great deal better[...] I have spent my entire 62 years here, but I still find it impossible to fit myself into the accepted patterns of American life and thought. After all these years, I remain a foreigner.
I conserve a small hope that some stray reader may come across my doggerel screeds, discover that their peculiar thoughts were shared by another, and find themselves thinking: “Here, too, is a kindred soul.”
I totally relate. Been called a "white Mexican" by the brown Mexicans who did not like me for being too white--been called "not that kind" of Mexican by white friends who said they hated brown ones. Etc. There is no winning. Could not seem to get tired when using my real name (this was in Portland, Oregon) but when I went to my nickname of my middle name "Rick"--no problem. mirror, mirror, who is the outsider?
ReplyDeleteShould be "hired", not "tired" though both may fit.
ReplyDeleteIt takes many generations for new identities to take root. Would be especially difficult if your parents were from Argentina (don't know if they are). Most middle class Argentines have relatively recent immigrant ancestors, and identify strongly with their forebears' country and culture. To go from there to America and have to start again as a re-transplant must leave you with little sense of connection to anything permanent.
ReplyDeleteEveryone has complaints about the place they live. If you have no reason to love that place and its people beyond your own conditional approval of what you see, then alienation is likely. You can't fall back on "these are my people for good or ill." They're not family, so to speak. I don't mean this as criticism, just an observation.
Dear Nordomania,
ReplyDeleteWhat an interesting little blog you have started. I found you from Unz.
A few thoughts.
1. the USA has a "racialization process" where newcomers are presumed to fit into a pre-existing matrix of racial, ethnolinguistic, and phenotypic classes. Depending on where you live, many people just have a few categories to work with.
It can be puzzling, annoying, mysterious, and frustrating for newcomers (relatively) who don't fit into the public's simplistic view of what sorts of people they might encounter.
Occasionally you can explain. But most people are in a hurry. A young Vartan Gregorian apparently was ready to explain to Americans who the Armenians were--but most people never asked.
2. Ethnicity can often be "performative." Improve your act and find one that the public finds acceptable (which probably means one they can quickly understand and find non-threatening). Think of it as a stage performance. "Toy with trouble" as the late Al Siebert said.
3. I'm wondering if your banter skills are up to your challenges. Sometimes people are being aggressive with you, other times they may just be making conversation to enliven a dull day. It's hard to tell.
4. Recall Mencken's claim that he enjoyed living in the USA because it was "The greatest show on earth."
Sincerely,
Charles W. Abbott
Hi, do you still actively manage this blog? That was a fascinating quote by Mencken.
ReplyDeleteGreetings from another American that doesn't really quite fit within the existing racial hierarchy.
ReplyDeleteI'm of Chinese and Japanese descent. One part of my family fled China in 1949 and came to the United States. Even amongst the Mandarin-speaking population, they did not fit quite cleanly within the Taiwanese v. Mainland dichotomy that's being shoved in everyone's face: they hold Taiwanese passports, but were raised in Northern China, speak with a Northern Chinese accent, and don't really identify as Taiwanese at all. But they haven't been to China in over 75 years, so they don't really resemble the most recent crop of "Chinese-Americans", many of whom have a much more hostile view towards their ancestral land of origin and are in many ways a result of having been in China during the Cultural Revolution. The other side is of Japanese vintage that immigrated to America _right_ before the second World War. In other words, what we remember of "Japan" is the Japan that existed prior to the Second World War. This does not correspond to what most modern Japanese think of Japan, a sense of history that doesn't inquire too much into pre-1945. Because of this, many of the original Japanese-Americans still alive more correspond to what pre-war Japan was like than many modern Japanese today, despite having an American passport!
In any event, both sides of my family immigrated to America when there was an implicit understanding that one assimilate to the prevailing culture. Not only does this pressure not exist today, but anyone that had assimilated in prior generations simply doesn't fit the public's preconceived notion of what an Asian-American really is: an immigrant that barely speaks English, has no real understanding of America, and is therefore undeserving of the recognition of being "American" as, say, someone Jewish. Any attempt to correct the historical record in a conversation is opposed in a rather hostile manner.
For these reasons I have decided to raise my kids in East ASia.