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 right 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 but strain myself to hear what accent they have so as to geographically place them in my world chart. I don’t even try anymore or allow myself to fit in with said company. I used to get rather excited as one gets when one dons the Spanish within whenever the gurgling of Castilian floated in the air. I often find myself straining to hear the rhythm of the language only to confirm it ain’t Spanish just something that sounded like it. That excitement is long dead within me like a rotten log in a forest accumulating moss. On the occasions that I do hear it I turn my head in the direction of the calling chime but anymore, I used to though. If I do Spanish, speakers don’t seem to pick me up on their latinamerican radar. I pass unnoticed no matter how much I stare. Here is an example of that: If last summer is any indication of the status of my Mexican credential vibes then what I experienced in Mexico city is a dire indication that my card carrying Mexican benefits have somewhat expired. Before I go on with this rant let me assure you dear reader that my intention is not to boast at all. Mexicans have this ugly thing of trying not to look Mexican hence all that indigenous pride stuff floating about in the social spheres these days. They aspire to that exotic allure some Europeans or other foreign ethnicities give out when they wander into view as they saunter about the countryside of México. We want to be like them. Suffice to say a lot people in my own country confused me with something else. How does one even begin to exact belonging when this phenomena excludes one erstwhile within the longing to an ethnic belonging is but dead certain? Who the heck knows and a question for better educated lads than me, that’s for certain. 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 haywire 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. Except this 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. Oddly enough I don’t suffer that in my own town of Tijuana. I seem like another bloke there and that’s all I need. Living in isolated areas like Nässjö or almost homogeneous societies like Sweden does render the sociological imagination useless.
133 Han clachado