“Go back to your country.”
Really? That’s what I came up with? My 4th grade English teacher had an assignment that consisted of each of us designing a menu for our own restaurant. Thus my creative juices concocted the “brilliant” idea of making a restaurant that served all the foods. Italian, Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Canadian, French, you name it. I neatly combined all the cultural foods and thought I had stumbled upon a game-changing idea. But when designing the cover and coming up with the slogan, my oblivious mind didn’t think of “the world at your tongue” or something like that. No. I wrote, “Go back to your country!”
Obviously my sentiments were with those who missed their homeland and wanted to find a place that served some decent food. But to the really loud Mexican kid in the back, I was revoking his green card. “So racist!” he said as the teacher hung all of the menus, including mine, on a billboard. Now realizing how ironic my slogan sounded in California, I nodded with him in agreement. “I know right!? Who did that?” Good times.
I’m Venezuelan-American, so I only had 50 percent leeway.
Latino. What comes to mind with that word? Salsa dancing? Tacos? Sofia Vergara? There are several languages that qualify in the Latin-roots category: Italian, Spanish, French, Romanian, etc. But chances are your mind jumped to Latin American. Then there is also Hispanic. My Brazilian friend and I are Latin American, my Spaniard friend and I are Hispanic, but a Brazilian is not Hispanic and a Spaniard is not Latin American, (or “Latino” if you’re being technical). Seemingly minor differences, but it’s a distinction nonetheless.
The United States of America is often described as the melting pot of various cultures, which is obvious. But if you shine the spotlight on everything south of Texas you’ll find that it’s still an American thing–we’re Americans too, thanks to Vespucci.
Every country in Latin America has a different flavor and culture that is united by the common thread of language. Cuban salsa is different from Mexican rancheras and Argentinian tango. Every Latino country seems to have its own staple bread-like substance for meals. For Mexicans it’s the tortilla, Venezuelans got them arepas and Salvadorans are crazy about pupusas. When observing what each country distinctly has to offer, it makes sense that one is annoyed when all these countries are constantly lumped into a single stereotype.
Due to the Mexican territorial proximity, many Americans might guess we all wear sombreros on Cinco de Mayo. Let me just say, if you call your Dominican classmate Mexican, she may not choose you as a lab partner. It’s not offensive; it’s just not her. On the other hand, we may be partly to blame for this, as we tend to stick together when in the United States.
It’s like turning on the faucet to a bunch of ants that were chilling in the sink. As the water rises, you’ll watch them clump together in solidarity no matter what anthill they’re from. What all these countries have in common is the Spanish language, in the general sense.
When I lived in California, my complexion wasn’t exactly warm cinnamon-like most of my Hispanic classmates. I was often called “white girl” in Escuela Sabatica, but I’m okay with that now. I was one of the few South Americans around, so I had a slightly different form of Spanish than those around me. But in the end, we’re all brought together by switching between English and Spanish mid-sentence and eating our corn with mayo and queso criollo.
Latinos have a glamorously diverse color-wheel, and it’s something to celebrate. We feel as one even when representing our motherland to others who may not share it.
Hopefully this is scratching the surface of solving the racial problems in America: finding commonality. Just as people from different Hispanic coun
tries can come together under their Latino heritage, we should all come together as Americans no matter what color, shape or size we may be.
It seems like common sense, but one would be surprised at how much our tribe-inclined mentalities may keep us from branching out every now and then. The more things you find in common, the less differences matter.
I can’t even begin to explain my excitement when “Despacito” hit #1 on the Billboards. All of a sudden, viral airplay had a little taste of Hispanic culture being embraced through the commonality of music. America has become a crayon box, and we’ve all got to dwell together until Jesus comes back for his people. We’re all in this together. Let’s remember that in the end we’re all probably Crayola, and we each give the work of art our own characteristic hue. What could be a greater commonality then being apart of the same majestic drawing?
Image credit: Christine Magnuson