On Being Mexican

I posted this in a private Ning group back in August 2008, but I stumbled across it today. It makes me chuckle every time. I have to shake my head at how insistent some people are on painting others into corners by attaching labels and assigning categories to them. Interestingly, this post indirectly has to do with many of you who might read this, the friends and family I had around me when I lived in Mexico City. Some of the language is tongue-in-cheek, so I hope nobody gets pissed at me. Just know that my memories of you are as individuals who contributed to the beautiful, full experience of my life, not nationalities, ethnicities, or other such corner-painting language…like Mexican. 😉

—-Originally posted on August 18, 2008—-

At the risk of offending someone, I have a few thoughts to share.

The hardest part about being Mexican is that I am not Mexican. I mean, I like Mexicans. I love Mexico. I lived there for 11 years, between the ages of 7 and 18. Mexico holds a spot in my heart that few other places do. I don’t have a problem with Mexico. The issue lies in the fact that the people I meet and the people who see my name on a piece of paper don’t know that I’m not Mexican. All they know is that my last name is Gonzalez, therefore, I must be Mexican.

But I’m not Mexican. I’m Puerto Rican. More accurately, I am an American citizen whose mother was born in Puerto Rico. My dad was born in New York City. His parents came from Puerto Rico. So, if I have to label myself, I call myself a Puerto Rican. There, I have a label. Now everyone can go about the business of reshuffling their expectations of me. Because, after all, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans are very different.

The problem, though, is that I kinda am Mexican. I lived in Mexico for a long time, when I was really young, during those formative years. I learned to speak Spanish like a Mexican. Any Puerto Rican I talk to will tell you that I’m Mexican because of the way I speak, the words I choose. But any Mexican I talk to will tell you that I have a funny accent, like I’m Italian or something. People I met when I moved to Illinois to go to college used to assume I was Italian. A guy on my floor my freshman year at the UIUC said, upon learning that I was Puerto Rican, “Dude, I thought you were Italian! I didn’t know you spoke Mexican.” Mexican isn’t a language. Maybe he thought that I spoke ancient Aztec or Mexica (pronounced me-SHEE-ka) as the language is called. I don’t. I do speak Italian, but that’s just because I thought it was easier than French. I speak a little French, too, but don’t let me fool you into thinking that I’m poly-lingual. I’m not. I just look and sound like I should be. Ricardo Antonio Gonzalez: Puerto Rican, lived in Mexico, speaks Spanish and Italian, can fake French, and looks like he’s Italian or something. Do you see how confusing this gets?

My point? Well, this is the rant I promised in my last posting: anointing people with titles. Titles are just labels. We place a lot of emphasis and importance on titles. Sometimes it’s warranted: the guy that I go to who has the title “Doctor” pretty much has earned his title. So, I assume he knows what he’s doing. Assumptions about title hold true in business just as much as they do in any other aspect of life. As a Manager, I am one thing. As a Leader, I am another. Either way, the Corporation has given me “the juice” by way of my title. So, people are forced to listen. That doesn’t mean that I’ll change hearts or minds by title alone, but it does mean I get the floor…unless there’s someone in the room with more juice. Then I’m forced to prostrate before them. But what about the brilliant guy in the corner who doesn’t have the juice, therefore doesn’t have the opportunity to truly be heard, because he lacks the title? We miss out on brilliance all the time, simply because there’s a title missing. No title, no juice, so they must not have worthwhile ideas. Unless they are Mexican.

Those guys are really smart.