There is a serious dearth of latinamerican people in my surroundings and I seldom meet any anymore here in my neck of the woods or smack in the middle of nothingness. I traverse the quotidian as I go about my routine and rut and if by perchance I do hear somebody speak the language of Cervantes I just pretend I don’t know what it is and strain myself to hear what accent they have so as to geographically place them in my world chart. I don’t even try anymore. I used to get rather excited as one gets when one dons the Spanish within. I have been thoroughly chastised for being what I am. People no where in the world can pinpoint me or what I am. Sad but true. Once a cultural shifter always a cultural shifter I suppose. It used to concern me but now I just accept it for what it is.
There is a certain pleasure in not having my Spanish antenna going about all gleefully about revealing my identity nilly willy if you will. It kind of gives me a sort of anonymity I miss from other cities where I lived in and had more people in it of course. Except his anonymity is about my ethnicity. By choosing to ignore I understand I appropriate a certain je ne sais quoi about my demeanor that people can’t seem to pinpoint as to my whereabouts. Or what I am most likely.