Ricardo Reyna Jr.

It’s been a little more than a few months since I was with a couple of old fraternity brothers; we gathered together after years of not seeing or contacting each other for breakfast. Through the popular networking website of Facebook, one brother all got in touch with all of us and invited everyone to meet at the Omelet House over on Rancho and Charleston, here in Las Vegas.  While we were ordering, one brother pointed out to me, an item on the menu. It was an item that was called “The Rio Grande Surfer”. It’s number 21 down in the menu, check it out.

The Rio Grande Surfer has a big chorizo in between its huevos. The term ‘Chorizo’ explained to the Spanish impaired as a spicy Mexican sausage. Though you are relieved to find out the fine Latino employees at the Omelet House will be happy to scramble your huevos in a mainstream fashion: “the whole McGillicuddy”.

Being the image conscious guy I am I suddenly pictured a portly Mexican male in a sarape surfing the timid waters of the Rio Grande, since we all know the Rio Grande has some killer waves.  The whole menu is filled with colorful names for the omelets: The Toadstool, The Guac, The Pollack and to add more color, “The Farmer Juan”.  I didn’t think much about it then, I rolled my eyes and thought it was just another interpretation of the Latino image from a Caucasian perspective.  Or I might be wrong; it might just be a thoroughly assimilated tenth-generation Mexican who has the skin color of Cameron Diaz that actually came up with these tacky-humorless titles.

Later, when thinking of this, the menu caused me to actually think of the moments throughout my life when I personally came upon little jabs of prejudice or racism, not even that—just a friendly tap on the shoulder reminder of being “The Other” in this country.  It’s not a white dude stepping up in front of me yelling at me for taking his country’s jobs or being illegal, I’m not talking about that; I’m talking about the moments when they tell us politely and under-the-table way of who we are and where we stand.

“Psst. Psst. Hey buddy, don’t forget, you’re one of them, not one of us.”

So I stepped back into memory lane and I reminisced the times in my life when I was reminded I was a little different or perceived as different from the rest, i.e. White, Caucasian or Anglo (WCA from now on).

• I was reminded I was not of the mainstream WCA culture a couple of months ago at a bar, (the Freaking Frog if you are a resident here in Las Vegas); I was standing at the bar for a while waiting to order another brew, a WCA person appears next to me, bartender (who later I found out to be the owner) comes up and looks at both of us for a split second, I was about to lift my hand when he points at the WCA guy and asked, “What can I get you?”  You’ll probably say “Wait a moment, more than likely he didn’t see you.”  I say “Bullshit. He did see me standing there before.”

• At the gym early one morning,  a Latino (of course) is cleaning the gym. A WCA is working out also, the Latino guy stops vacuuming and walks to get a drink of water as at the same time the WCA guy is walking toward the fountain.  The Latino worker takes a few moments more to drink (my guess it’s the first drink he’s had in all night). The WCA dude waits in back, puts his hands up in the air in disgust, slaps them on his side, steps a few back and looks at me as I added a weight on the leg press, my guess he wanted support of his grievances until he noticed to his shock there’s another “Other” there– not cleaning but actually working out.

• After 9-11, I was sitting at Starbucks writing in my journal when a WCA kid pointed at me and asked his WCA mother if I was a terrorist.

• I got the stare downs from WCA’s who were disgusted of me wearing my Mexico national team futbol jersey.  That reminds me, I always get  the stare downs whenever I wore that jersey; and it was a world cup year too! Little did they know that I cheer for the U.S. team also, but my guess is that they just don’t like futbol period, much less me wearing a green jersey.  I gots to give da Mexico national team some representation cuz they really suck. They don’t call them maletas (luggages) for nothing.

• At the last world cup qualifier between Mexico and the U.S., I was reminded of my status in race in a situation when someone, my guess an employee who lost a bet, walked into the bar wearing a Mexico cap. He was greeted by a WCA dude who asked him “Where’s your sombrero?”   (Thus equating that I, by default, wears a sombrero everywhere I go.)

• Going back through the memories, I was called a Wetback when I was a little boy by this WCA at a parking lot of a grocery store in San Antonio, Texas.
• I was called a Beaner by a guy passing by in a car one time in 1992; a taco by some kid in 1996.
• A stroll in a department store would turn eyes from other WCA employees.
• I get the stares from people whenever I get inside an airplane. Like if I have explosives in my choners.

Well the times I was reminded of my ethnicity are endless.  I could go on and on but it really doesn’t matter.  The idea of this sphere of Latinidad that I encompass travels with me, lives inside me and is part of my ideology and state of mind.  It is the image I present to people I frequent through my living days. It is something I cannot leave at home or take away. In fact, I am very proud of being of Mexican ancestry and living in this great country that has given my family opportunity to reach a level of success.  Or I can renounce everything I am and choose to be an Agringado.  Overly-overly- overcompensate myself to tell Them I am not the Other.

What is an Agringado?  A Latino who turned into a gabacho.  Or to put it nicely, a Coconut (brown on the outside, white on the inside. Get it? Ha- Ja- Ha- Ja); Or equivalent to my black brothers and sisters: an Uncle Tom or an Oreo; someone who totally renounces their race, creed and heritage.

Who is Agringadoed?  This muchacho turned lad and Bush advocate extraordinaire.

I know a lot of those who are Agringado. Those who choose to be the other side; they assimilate completely and forget who they are. Or in fact, denying who they are and where they ultimately come from. For the majority, they’re pale skin and can easily fall into line in the WCA mainstream.

Deep down I cannot tell a person I am one of them.  Number one, I can’t because of my skin color and second, because I am not;  I am Chicano. Usually I get a query look, like if they are trying to compute whether Chicano is a hybrid of Italian (which for some unknown reason I have been labeled and asked if I was Italian also).  Then they wonder if I am a new breed of Illegals spawned by Illegals already embedded in their America or if maybe Beck, Rush or Dobbs gave a new label to Illegals.

I have to explain to them what Chicano is and I have to explain the politics; yes, I am Mexican and my parents are from Mexico, they are from Monterrey, not Monterey that is in California, but Monterrey, Mexico; they are perplexed and confounded that there is another Monterey, even frightful a Monterrey with those dastardly-double rolling ‘rr’s’, even worse that Monterrey is in Mexico of all God awful places; at the end they digress my image into some realm in their WCA minds where all who are Mexican males are Mexican and they stay Mexican with their somberos and mustaches, carousing their hot tamale-like women while eating Taco Bell Nacho Bell Grandes with their hot peppers; and those who are Mexican females are short, pregnant and promiscuous while making tortillas with many kids around them while they clean their houses.

Or it doesn’t solely have to be about race; it could be status and ideology.  I know a lot of acquaintances that come from families who are very well off financially that totally renounce their heritage. They even learn another language like French, Italian or German just to show them they are one of them.  I used to know this homie that knew four languages and considered himself Portuguese even though he was from Aguas Callentes, fucker looked like he just crossed the border. I told him why don’t you just say you’re Brazilian because you’ll have the soccer angle to talk about with people. He looked at me like if I was an idiot.

You know, truly, I sometimes feel sorry for them. So I ask of you, Agringado, why do you do what you do?  Oh those poor Agringados, what and where will you go? What children are you going to spawn into this society?  What creatures will you frequent and tell them you are “American” and “American” only; though your family is from Mexico, you tell WCA’s you are Spanish because Spanish sounds so much better in the English language than Mexican.  Spa-nish.  There.  It’s so easy. Mexican is so harsh on the tongue! Three syllables are such a large mountain to climb when you could easily say it nicely in two: Spa—nish—

If you know an Agringado and do truly care about him or her, I would behest for you to sit down and have an intervention with the individual. There is a way out of it. To alleviate the Agrindado do this: venture to a local taqueria buy some tacos de trompo, rez y de tripas, put un chingo de salsa, pero que pique–  get an agua de melon, tamarindo or horchata and start to converse with the individual about their Mexicaness, begin with how tasty the tripas are, but don’t tell them what they are, that would be overkill tell them it’s Mexican tofu. Try and calm the person down because him or her stepping into a place of business with so many Mexicans might lead to culture shock or cardiac arrest. Strap the person into the seat if you have to.  If it is a huge problem, take the tacos home, don’t forget to get a lot of salsa y limones.

As you go home buy a twelve of Tecate, Pacifico or Corona, give him or her a pajuelazo de Don Julio, put some Chente or Los Tigres del Norte on the Ipod or Iphone, then you serve them a bowl of menudo with some bolillos and it should do the trick. Sooner or later that person will start feeling and being Mexican. That or his or her head will start spinning and explode.

Good luck or better, Suerte.