The Curious Case of the Ambiguously Mexican Red Head
Growing up, I didn't really fit in. My father, who I talk to almost everyday, is Mexican and has never lived in the US. My mother is Anglo-American. They married in Mexico in 1967, the same year that anti-miscegenation laws were banned across the US. I was born five years later in Mexico City with red hair, white skin and blue eyes. When I was one year old my parents divorced and my mom, my sister and I moved to California where we have lived ever since.
Trini, my Mexican grandmother.
In third grade, my sister and I were taunted by neighborhood boys who called me Burrito, and my sister Taco Tits. Growing up in the Reagan Era I can't tell you how many people upon learning that I am Mexican said, "You can't be. You must be Spanish". As if being Mexican was one of the worst things a person could be.
In high-school when I got into UC Berkeley, my college advisor told me that it must have been because of Affirmative Action. The implication being that I had no merits for acceptance except the fact that I was Mexican. And later when I dated a young Black man and the LA riots hit, he told me he couldn't date any more white girls. "I guess that means we can't date anymore", I said. "You're not white", he smiled. "Your Mexican". How convenient--for him.
Me, the ambiguously Mexican and American uno.
Growing up with others imposing their views on me about my identity led me to hide who I was for a long time. But in college I started learning about the history and politics of race in our country. I realized that so many people of color had it a lot worse than me. My Mexican heritage gave me just a taste of what others who can't pass for white go through. I became acutely aware of the privilege that came with the white color of my skin.
Instead of letting others tell me who I was, I started to grapple with how I wanted to classify myself. Did the One-drop rule apply to me? Or was I a white Mexican? Well, not really because I'm also Anglo-American. Was I Mexican-American? Not quite as that label has been assigned to Americans who are of pure Mexican decent. Maybe I was half Mexican and half American? Well...that implies that the my upper half is one ethnicity and my legs and feet the other.
In my early 30s I had an epiphany. I don't have to choose one over the other. I'm not either/or. I'm both/and, without a doubt and damn proud of it, thank you very much!
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I too am a Meixcan Red-Head!!! I thought there for a minute that I was a rareity, but I guess not. I have to say that by looking at your picture, you and i look more white then Mexican. I love who I am. I love the fact that i can actauly tan in the summer, and love all the other atributes of haveing the Mexican heritage.
My son is 2 (he is half white, half Mexican) and he is as pale as myself, and has my hair color (I am fair-skinned with light brown hair). My husband (his father) does have black hair and darker skin when he is in the sun, but his natural tone, unexposed to the sun, is almost as white as mine. People still say my son looks like his dad though, and he does. They have the same brwon eyes and facial features, among other things. Ever so often, you have the rare few who make remarks. Once while eating at a Chinese restaurant, one of the waitresses nodded towards my husband and said, "He's the father?" Hello! The nerve people have. Enjoyed this article!
I feel you. I am a "red headed Mexican" too... I am half Mexican, my dad from Mexico, my mom a blond American... and I came out with red hair? There were lots of jokes about me being the milk man's daughter when I was growing up. It makes me a little sad to not feel as connected to my Mexican heritage... well, I do feel connected, but people assume I am not because of how I look.
Anyway, thank for you sharing. This was great to read.
Agree.
Just be.
That's it.
Yes, human beings can give the human race a bad name.
Bravo on an enlightening piece.