During a time of changing identities, I remember a student of mine at the University of Arizona once defined himself as a Mexican Mexicano, this in contrast to Mexican American, as was the case for many of his classmates. I understood that identity.
Truth is, I came to this country at 5 years old and have never once felt truly welcomed in this country, a country that has always treated people of color as less than human. From Day One, my entire family felt the ugly sting of hatred from all quarters, simply because we were “Mexican.” In those days, even the term itself was considered pejorative.
At 15, when I became a U.S. citizen, when time came to swear allegiance to this country, part of that included renouncing my Mexican citizenship. I was also strongly encouraged to change my name.
Why? I asked migraman.
Because it is the custom in this country, he dishonestly replied, implying the force of law.
That was 1969.
Suffice to say that I am Roberto to this day and while I perhaps spiritually lost a little bit of Mexico within me that day, I think I recaptured all that dignity when I first climbed the Pyramid of the Sun in Teotihuacan, Mexico, the same month after graduating from UCLA a generation ago.
