Race???? Part I

I used to be Hispanic, but I’m not any more. Or Latina, whatever they are calling it these days. My father was born in an adobe hut, according to family lore, in a small Central Mexican town called Chalchihuites. I looked it up on the map. It exists. I’ve never been there. As an infant, his family immigrated to New York City (legally, thank you very much) and later settled on Long Island. He doesn’t talk much about his childhood. The facts I’ve gleaned are these: 1) he used to think that the flecks in vanilla bean ice cream were dirt; 2) he bathed in the kitchen of his family’s two-room apartment in Hell’s Kitchen; 3) he learned to speak English in kindergarten and 4) he was made to kneel on rice as a punishment and his father did not spare the rod, or the belt buckle as it were.

There’s no doubt about it. HE is Mexican. An immigrant. “Disadvantaged.” He did not go to college and has engaged in mechanical work.

According to my analysis, that made me “first generation,” from a “working class family.” Cool. I was eligible for many scholarships and was courted by an Ivy League school.

Now I’m bourgeois. I have been acted upon affirmatively, and this turned out pretty well. I have two houses, three cars and I go on a lot of nice vacations. My friends are doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs.

I check the white box. Or Caucasian. Whatever.

Why do I do this? It’s because of what “they” mean when they ask the question.

I know this. I work with many not-for-profit social service agencies serving a large city. O.K. New York City. Our funders always want to know – how many Blacks and Hispanics (African-American, Latino, WHATEVER) do you serve? There must be many. These people need HELP.

I don’t need help any more. I am no longer “disadvantaged.” I am decidedly advantaged. So I must be white, right?

But check out my quiet act of resistance.




I don’t mean the flag or the “proudly.” I mean the fact that I HAVE an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror of my BMW SUV. :-)