Författare: xikano_2

I pride myself in being able to detect other people’s place of origin. My rate of accuracy these days rounds to about 70% and in worst cases a least I get the continent where they from right. It used to be loads better when I lived in good’ol Aztlán. On occasions I can even detect another Hispanic within meters from me or at times a mile or so. I can sense they speak Spanish. So my ethnic radar is fully functional for the most part even though I seldom use it up here in the Swedish Highlands. My radar, which used to trigger itself on at the minor indication that an id was needed only suffered a minor glitch at the beginning of my residency here in Sweden. I could not distinguish a Pole from a Finnish. Heck, they were all white, blond and blue eyed to use a general saying. This, however, changed over time. I can, at the very least, distinguish who is a Swede and who ain’t it though it is tricky at times. One would even think that Swedes are a very homogeneous people but one would be surprised to find out the rate of interracial marriage over here. The only difference is that this interraciallity is for the most part white on white.

Either way, I was aghast the other day that somebody confused me for being an Arab. I would not otherwise be bothered by this comparison but being here in Sweden it did shake my foundations and hit right about my San Andreas fault. It hurt my American pride the least to say. Ignorance is an enemy not to be underestimated because it can strike where one least expects it. So what does one do in said circumstances? I am afraid the reader might know the answer already. Yes, one bites the bitter pill and swallows whole heartedly the poison present before one.

This morning I am drawn to a particular memory that I cherish very much. It is its poignancy that made it last in my neurons. The event in question took place last year, 2007, during the month of July. I was off in Tijuana on a vacation that I had long awaited to take. During that period of my life I was very much on the lookout for beers, a particular interest of mine which I enjoy very much and whenever there is a chance to try out something new I eagerly seek it out. During a little stint in San Diego I went with my aunt and uncle of Chula Vista to an old part of San Diego called Old Town. This particular haunt eeks out a living by caving in to tourists who wish to remember the Old San Diego when it used to be Mexican although most of the trinkets sold there have as much to do with Old México as waterpipes have to do with Eskimos. Now, one would think that its o.k to draw attention to the fact that México lost territories to the US during the 1848 war which it is off course true but the fact that one cannot bring about the fact to gringos that Old Town was once Mexican is not so palpable. It just makes it all too real for gringos for the mere fact that those usually asking tend to be Mexican themselves.

This little nitch of business housed on historical property is even more bizarre to the eye because the warping of authenticity bellies a glowing shine of falsehood all over its facade. Need I also mention that for a historical site this joint is also a distortion of several pieces of history but by the time one comes to that conclusion one is engulfed by the silly old bliss that permeates the atmosphere and just permits us to let go and let be. Eitherway, the kin and I decided to check out a restaurant that sold Mexican food. Now, you must take into account that San Diego is very close to México, so close that if had we but decided to go back to México and eat Mexican food in México it would have taken us less than 10 minutes to do so. So México is like a spit away so to say. This also ties in with my little description of Old Town because being so close to México San Diego’s Old Town is a poor copy of its old self bearing in mind that one could be better at refurnishing Old Town with its former glory had one but only wished so. So there we are, in that restaurant and me being eager to try out something new by way of beers I decided to ask for the imported variety. I swear to god that when I heard the list of imported beers my insides just went into shock mode. I do not know if this state of being betrayed my exterior but I remember I remained silent, in shock at hearing the list, but silent.

The list of imported beers all bore names of the town next door, that is Tijuana, México. Now technically it is imported beer but for the love of christ how much can one deceive itself. And it is this sort of daily deceit gringos play on one another or at the very least make the local native swallow to separate them from the rest of the frey called México.

Boy, I face my life with little obstacles at all. Either that or am in terrible denial. I am a teacher and I have a job. For the most part, here in Sweden this would just as well be enough but there is the business of that little American worm squirming in my intestines. I want more. Not only have I signed up for more English courses at a university here in Sweden, I also asked to learn how to be an electrician. Not content with that I think that I am about to learn how to drive. In my whopping forties. All that learning. If only this learning would be reflexive so that I could draw some lesson about learning but I guess that is to stand out in the cold. Perhaps I should take like a sabbatical and let things rest, enjoy being a teacher and draw lessons out of my career. Maybe I should enjoy kicking it back.

I guess I am no Mexican in that fashion. I am always doing something. Not that Mexicans arent doing something all the time but like the Swedes they too tend to settle down on one thing and call it a day. What is it that I want? That is the real question.

One of my co-workers, who happens to be an immigrant, has said that I want to be better than the Swedes. I confess that when I first heard this I was somewhat taken aback. I have never entertained the idea of becoming better for the sake of becoming better than another person or ethnic group in this case.

It be only befitting I should finish the year by writing my last post in the vernacular. Am in a Xicano mood. So I spiffed up the good old haunt Yonder Lies It. Mind you, it is the only blog that has consistently kept its name since its inception. Lest you’ve forgotten I maintain several other blogs. Well, the short lived xicano blogsphere vanished or I just ain’t aware of its whereabouts. I don’t wanna go down that path. I believe I already kissed the old porslin queen as much as Richard Rodriguez puked red and green in an Argument with my Mexican father. There is very little to add up for the year 2007 in English or xicanismo at that.

Though I still find myself at odds with a language that for so long tortured me by means of questioning my English fluency and nativeness to only come to Sweden and realize how deeply ingrained English is in me only to default to Spanish as my primary source of communication all unconsciously off course. Suddenly, Spanish became the language to be had and English ceased to be a source of joy. Before blogger I ate, thought and wrote in English. There was no room for Spanish.

I have no ready answer for this. I have put forth the question several times before and the answer eludes me. English, after so many years of struggling to make it mine and suddenly realizing it is mine become a lost cause only to be taken for granted and never straddle more the fear of abandonment. It is a small victory of sorts for me. Yet I now long and miss the old chap so much that I can not quench my thirst to hear good old English again.

The idea that am an English native speaker tends to work in many weird ways in Sweden. They see a brown, black haired person that speaks fluent English and they stand baffled before me. They don’t expect a person like me. A so called non-American being so American. Many fail to understand the multicultural aspects of our society even though many strive and look towards the US as a model for this very multi-kulti, as is it called in Sweden, society.

The fact that I lack American citizenship, political at that, does create confusion in the best of them. Specially to the ones that fear Americans. They can then be free to speak their mind without having to offend the very entity they fear most: the gringo American. I stand before them defending a culture that denies me yet a culture I form part of. Am baffled at it in as much or moreso then they do themselves.

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I suppose that the best of 2007 was that I leave it as a teacher. Here in Sweden people tend to wear their titles as a pride badge of sorts. They actually play the part. It is not in my nature to do so because the Swede tends to become a sorts of authority on the matter which it is not to be questioned at all. I am of a different nature. I cannot be that authority yet. It must be my americanness that delimits my ego or vanity from acquiring said attitude. It is deeply engrained in me that I can always do more and better before I can even contemplate the idea that I am a teacher. An apprentice of the craft am I for sure.

I have learned a lot yet I feel I have loads more to learn. I am not done learning yet despite the fact that it is advised I stop from learning at my age. I am supposed to let go. Can I let go?

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There is, however, a small bit of comfort that I am a teacher because I am an authority on something, in this case, the English and Spanish language. Moreso because I am a native speaker of said languages.

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I was walking towards the bus stop. I had decided for a new route and while this new-old routine paved the way for what am about to detail what made it special was a series of incidents, curious ones at that. I had left work a bit too early to rush downhill as I usually do. I tend to time the time I take to make it just in time with a few minutes to spare while the bus arrives from its departure point to my spot. So I ventured on a different venue risking somewhat the time space I usually have for this daily chore. On my way I recall being hesitant about an idea that was lurking behind my head and persisted in convincing me to go to some After Work event. This rather insistent idea was no doubt brought upon a news advertisement I had earlier seen in the morning paper where said organized venues for debauchery of these sorts are held. Mind you, not that I don’t myself engage in the pleasures of Bacus but I often tend to resist the mingling that accompanies said public displays of ethylic atmospheres preferring instead to do so before the written word. Either way, like always, I can never convince myself to go or I can never muster enough gull to venture in a pub to drink a few good old beers in company of others.

I felt thirsty and I stopped at the local kiosk, as they are called here in Sweden, to purchase something to quench my thirst. These sort of huts serve as the local junk food provider for the vicinities as they too tend to sell all kinds of disturbing media for my mexican catholic eyes as well as the local gossip yellow press. I stopped to form a queue and while I was awaiting my turn to buy my pop soda a small boy was buying candy. Now, I only have so much time to play around with so I couldn’t help but feel stressed at the little boy’s patience as he decided with intense interest over the candy he wanted to buy. For a moment I just stared at the boy and looked upon the clerk who tended the boy’s taste and choice of candy erstwhile the child verbally pointed out to the clerk what he wanted. It seems to me that he must of have named like fifteen different sorts of candies all by their name before I finally heard that there was but 50 í¶re left in the purchasing thus calming my impatience somewhat. This made me reminisce if I ever also once long ago knew the names of my candies.

I even entertained the thought that I perhaps felt somewhat jealous at this ability to name candy by its name. I bought my soda and went along but I can’t seem to forget this incident, however weird it was, and yes, I made the bus too.

I believe I just shook the living lights and faith foundations out of a European or Scandinavian as they prefer themselves to be known. I don’t normally like to engage in this sort of intellectual bouts with any human being beside the blank pages that the Internet offer at the disposal of those who are in the know to use said device to churn out intellectual waste such as mine. I say so because I don’t consider my intellectual output to be of the most pristine sort, indeed, I deem it pretty much low carb if you will as it is very light in many respects and albeit with as little substance as possible though its appearances might at times indicate otherwise or right out deceit the eye though I intended not to do so.

I confessed to a person who is being tested on its friendship. Said person seems to be friend material both intellectually and spiritually as well. The outpour tested his beliefs as I pitted my beliefs against his. I flatly renounced all judeo-christian faith right in his face. This rendered asunder all faith platform said friend material stood upon. One might very well wonder what sort of being would test a friend on an intellectual basis and I would readily answer, I. However, this is a point of contention that we shall quibble further on as I proceed forward on. The gist of my spiritual platform resides on the idea that Christianity is an alien form of spirituality to Native Americans. The voices of my ancestors are still to be heard inasmuch as their voice still lingers on both in the flesh as well as in the past because it hasn’t been more than 500 years since the Christian alien force invaded our shores. This very much baffled our guest at hand. Even moreso as I called his faith a malignant virus. Though the malignant adjective was left out in the conversation but was rather implied as being such.

In retrospect I am glad I came clean about my religious beliefs to this honest to God earth man. I wish not him to believe me a man of the Church though I may convey so in our conversations. Hopelly I managed to come across as a man with not much to hide. After all, I did spoke of my spiritual convulsions during my puberty. This I speak not lightly off to anyone, in fact, not too many people in my life know of my spiritual crisis as a young pre-puberty years. Yet said person now knows of this. A gift I was willing to hand to a person I deem highly in spiritual terms. I hope he understood that.

I seem to recall Bartleby, that old Melville character that so baffles many of us in this so called modern world, whenever I cherish the idea of entertaining thoughts on Chicanismo. I feel am so way beyond that that the mere thought entails and automatic I prefer not to.

I believe I have lost my English voice and I do not know how and when this happened and worst yet why. It seems as though Spanish has taken sole control over what I say, communicate and invent via the written and oral means of parlance. Mind you, this area used to be the sole realm of English hence my bafflement. As soon as I am done with the day’s rant or keyboard orgy of thoughts I am done for whatever reason and pursue only that thought in all the vanities that entail being a blog writer and in Spanish. What is up with that? One reasonable explanation is that Spanish provides a more rewarding exchange. I noticed this when I began communicating with other English writing bloggers. I could never identify with them due to some odd chasm of sorts whereby what would otherwise seem to be on the surface unity factors created deep underlying differences. Mostly because the 2 or3 years I spent peeling off propaganda from my Xicano identity Fortsätt läsa ”Haven’t just”

I don’t think many mexicans care much about the aid but rather care about were that aid will end up. Many mexicans in my generation have known for years about the crookedness in the upper echelons of our society so it is not surprising that we tend to resist any help from the US. This resistance tends to be misread by the media at large which still holds a sway on a narrative that belongs more to the better half of the latter 1800’s than the 2000’s.

We know, for example, that the leaders of our political elite will rather distribute the goods amongst themselves rather than see the needs of the nation. Those elites are like hungry beasts that require feeding to be appeased. The US happily provides the chow for them. In return, the US is content with exploiting a situation that benefits them although shortsightedly, ignore, at their own peril, the dangers it treads upon as if those dangers were more of a nuisance rather than a prevention plan in action. So the US pays a hefty sum of money for a return that consequently only creates more problems rather than offering a solution for the best buck.

Hence, pouring down money into mexico’s elite will only help the US gain incentives and create more resistance to US ideas in Mexico. While in the short run this would seem the ideal thing to do, history will repeat itself. Friedman’s Shock and Awe economics are coming to a halt and sooner or later the democratic system we all favor will have its day in Mexico. At this point in time, I suggest that the US await for more friendlier attitudes from the population in México for its help. As it is now, the US is going over the heads of the mexican population. Remember, Calderón is considered an illegitimate government, whether Americans like it or not and those are the rules of a democracy.

Hold tight to those purse strings Washington, the day when we really need you is yet to come. After all, it isn’t as if we don’t care for those territories we lost back in 1848.

One does after all feel as throwing the towel. I do feel that I am losing it. I never had trouble dealing with two languages. Yet being so far away from the center of gyration that rules my bilingualism has caused an atrophy of sorts.

One can not complain after all, it has been little over a decade since I partook of the nourishing soil that bore fruit to my bilingual status and here I am now struggling with the fruit of being a trilingual. Curiously enough I posed this very same problem to the spanish community in my Spanish blog and as a result my head got chewed and spitted. I was being too much of a show off.

I have never been to good of a peacock. I flaunt feathers yet unbeknownst to me people react mysteriously aggressive to it. In English there seems to be less care for the language realm, one can be multilingual and be no reaction to it. Either way.

Swedish has become a nuisance. There is too much noise for me to make sense of it at times. Like watching the war of the ants. Like noise interferes with English and Spanish rendering nonsense and leaving me speechless, for what else is there left for us bilinguals that must store several languages in our brains?

I have come to the conclusion that I don’t like wordpress. IT makes it difficult for me to save and I find it too troublesome to do anything with it. For example, the tags I use for technorati disappear everytime I edit the post. Perhaps I should learn to wait for the tags until am thoroughly through.

Another thing is that I don’t like my categories. I restrained myself somewhat so I now don’t know what to do except that starting all over makes one lazy at the sight of the very idea yet I see no other solution.