Icome from Mexico. I had thought I was living in America before, but only since I moved to America did I realize that now I am in America again. For you, America is America, and for us, America is América, too. There is no difference, except for another thirty-six countries. Just that: thirty-six other countries, all part of America. I don’t like to talk about countries. The world is one. Humanity is one. But it is impossible not to think about countries when you live in a foreign one.
Every single day there is something or someone that makes me feel “Mexican.” I don’t even know what that means. I don’t know how a “Mexican” has to be. I am tired of having to assume an identity that is a mix of the actual me and their idea of me. I am a living caricature of the real me.
This has an unnerving effect even beyond everyday struggles with language and culture. Every day I have to figure out a hidden rule. For example, you can’t visit a friend or colleague at home or work unannounced. You have to set a time. You can’t park wherever there is a space. You have to read four different signs to know if it is possible for you to park there. You have to be careful about calling someone black, but you can always call someone white. You probably don’t want to mention that someone is fat, but if someone is thin, it is very good to mention it.
Above all, there are acceptable ways of understanding reality, and you Americans use euphemisms to describe it. For example, you invade other countries and say you’re “helping them find freedom.” Instead of reforming schools and the workplace so everyone has the same opportunity, you use “affirmative action” to make it sound as if the problem is solved. These euphemisms are normal for you, as it is normal to call this country America. I only wish you were conscious that in doing so, you’re ignoring the other countries that are also part of America.
Maybe this conceit of “America” is that it’s a place for anyone. America, then, is a kind state of mind. I am impressed by the diversity this has created. I can’t believe how many different political perspectives you can find in this country. There are people from countries that I didn’t know existed. Music and sounds that I never heard before. Food of such variety that I get lost in the supermarket, as if I’m negotiating many countries in one. But the diversity gives some people a false sense of knowing and from that a posture of superiority. I talk to some people who sound like they know more than me about my own country, about the very things that I thought I knew best.
How can I explain to an American friend that, yes, all the world is here, but there are many worlds outside this beautiful and complex country? How can I explain that in my America there are another thirty-six countries?
If those countries—if all the world—are part of your America, why do I wake up every morning worried that I’ll offend you if I hug and kiss you when I meet you? When will I feel free to ask questions without fear of sounding politically incorrect?
For more than ten years I tried to share my passion for literature in Mexico, and all I found were aggressive people trying to put me down. But here, all I receive are invitations. It’s so easy to join associations, clubs, schools, and so on. I’ve worked with an organization that helps young children learn to write and another that builds houses for writers. I’ve given several public readings of my work—in Spanish, English, and Swahili. I’ve received all kinds of invitations to collaborate on various publications. What is the difference? Maybe the difference is that this country is made of people like me, who came from other places, who had to deal with a new culture and, in turn, are contributing to it with all our little differences.
Maybe one day it will be normal to hug and kiss people when you first meet them.
*Originally published in the anthology book Who Will Speak for America? Temple University Press, 2018