Ten days ago, my friend Carl paid me a visit. Had a great time with him, mostly chatted about grad school experiences. It was as if we had just picked up where our last conversation left off. Well, not quite. My Spanish has greatly improved and I'm not as reserved as I was nine years back.
Carl's comments about writing, about my constant treading on borders that got me thinking again. Really thinking.
Sure, born in El Paso, Texas, physical border. Growing up in an American environment with Mexican parents teaching and expecting us to live in a displaced Mexican culture. Becoming aware of being Chicana (feeling Mexican, feeling American, belonging to nothing and the possibility of belonging to both at the same time. See JBN, I was listening!).
Then marrying a Spaniard. From Catalonia (border culture here too). Moving to Barcelona and being Chicana is all of the sudden not important anymore. So, what now? American, that's it!
But, in every conversation I had with any Spaniard, I had to defend the American government. Hard enough to do with Clinton and his Oval Office tryst (What was her name? Oh who cares... Miss I'll-Keep-The-Blue-Dress-Just-In-Case) but absolutely impossible with the Texas Butcher at the helm.
So, back to being Mexican. But that wasn't right either. Easy solution. Become Spanish. That's right, Spanish citizenship. What the heck. It's just a paper anyway!
Fins aviat!
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