Cultural Divide

My family is pretty white. To give you a point of reference:

My memories started when we lived in Wyoming. Which was pretty white also.

But as a family, we felt we were pretty diverse because my dad spoke Spanish fluently and made tacos for dinner almost more than we had spaghetti.

One fateful day, when I was 8, My parents held a family meeting.

We were informed that we would be moving to New Mexico. My dad was thrilled to the point of kicking his feet with delight. My mom seemed happy in her calm and cautionary way.

I, on the other hand, panicked. Despite feeling comfort in the idealized understanding that I wasn’t racist, I was wary of moving somewhere that English was not the primary language. My parents laughed away my ignorance, explaining that we were not moving to Mexico. That we would still be in the United States. “Their state bird is the roadrunner!” My mom was happy to exclaim as though this would change anything. As though I would be so thrilled at the prospect of a roadrunner that I would jump in the car with my dad’s sombrero atop my tiny head.

Unfortunately, this was my only experience with roadrunners:

“They aren’t big,” my mom said, her lips pursed in the way they get when I demanded proof rather than taking her word for it.

I was unsatisfied.

We moved.

Everything was weirder.

“Where are all the trees?”

“This is the desert.”

“What’s that poky thing? A cactus?”

“No, that’s a tree.”

“I thought this was a desert.”

“There are some trees.”

“Where are the cactus’s?”

“Cacti. They’re those little round things.”

“I thought they were tall.”

“That’s Arizona.”

“... The houses remind me of The Flintstones. I don’t want a flat roof.”

“Our house has a flat roof.”

“...”

“Don’t worry. We are going to get used to everything. There’s a roadrunner!”

It was clear that the Warner Brothers had grossly exaggerated the poor animal. Also, it wasn’t nearly as fast as the cartoon which was, perhaps, a bigger bummer than flat roofs and small cacti.

Over the next few weeks, while my parents tried to get things settled, my sisters and I tried to cope. We went outside to play which, in Wyoming, had been our favorite past time. The first thing we learned was to not take off our shoes. Grass was not your friend. It bit you and stabbed you and kept hidden bombs which I called thistles until I was mocked into calling them by their New Mexican name, stickers.

The next thing we learned was that it was far too hot. The sun hated our mountain-prepped skin.

Playing outside was about as fun as that time my sister and I accidentally stabbed each other with steak knives while emptying the dishwasher. Of course, to console ourselves, we went outside to play in our large yard with soft grass and a row of lilac bushes and honeysuckle.

No Longer.

Once school started I was not thinking about our brown and dead backyard. Nor was I worrying about poky plants or what green chile was. I was terrified of meeting new people from this strange land of nothingness.

I reluctantly entered my classroom which was held in something called a portable. The main school building didn’t have room for all the students so they had little classrooms made out of, what looked to me to be, semi trucks.

I walked into a sea of different shades of brown skin and black hair. I remember being grateful for being a brunette myself. I quickly realized that my favorite Mattel doll, Theresa, was no more Mexican looking than I was.

I stood in the doorway, magnetized to my mother’s sweet leg. The teacher asked for someone to volunteer to show me around and teach me the way of things. Nearly every girl raised her hand. I was not used to that either. In Wyoming when the teacher asked for help the only person who raised their hand was the class suck-up.

I felt a little better; enough to let go of my mom and allow her to go home.

The first week was rough but I was quickly accepted by all.

For 8 or 9 years I was happy. I still missed green plants and community activities that involved my own culture rather than one I was admiring from the outside but, all in all, we were integrating well.

Then tragedy struck.

Loss of health.

Loss of work.

We were forced to move in with family in Utah. For one day I was excited at the prospect of change. The next day I was sobbing until I had a headache.

Everything was hard.

I started school. There was no such thing as a portable. The school was a large, expensive, brick building. I stood in the classroom doorway, staring at a sea of blonde heads and fashion icons.

One girl took it upon herself to take me under her wing. She was nice but we had nothing in common.

Lunch was unusual. The black kids sat with the black kids. The Samoan kids sat with the Samoan kids. The gay kids sat with the gay kids. I wasn’t used to that level of division.

I soon found comfort with the Colombian kid who sat with us. He may never know how much it meant to me to laugh with him. We weren’t close but those few lunches that we got to spend time together will never be forgotten.

I eventually found friends in an obscure group of people who were isolated from others and even each other.

I also got to know my extended family more. They weren’t so bad. (There's one black guy in the bunch. Try to guess which one!)

 

It wasn’t long before we eventually made our way back to New Mexico. Despite their not having the superior cacti, I felt like I was back home.