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International Half-Breed

Juan Zapata

    “I would die for my country. This is my home.”
    My father roars with laughter. “You’re not an American.”
    “Yeah, totally American, with your Mexican-looking face and cactus nose.” My mother rolls her eyes.
    I’ve heard these kinds of remarks for years—all throughout middle school, high school, and now college. These depredations always stem from family members—cousins, uncles, aunts, you name it. I’m not alone in this. Many foreign-raised children experience this, and I am willing to bet they feel my overwhelming frustration. These insults may seem harmless, but to many of us, they are a horrendous attack on our persons.
    I was brought into the United States at the age of four. I grew up here and assimilated into the culture. Everything I know is American; I am American. When “The Star-Spangled Banner” plays at sports games or public events, I feel an onrush of pride at the opening. I slam my hand across my heart and stand up straight, staring at our flag, unwavering. As the song continues, my heart feels fit to burst—I picture a battle—bombs bursting in air, brave men running forth, charging with guns. Fighting for freedom, screaming—yelling battle cries. My eyes water, my skin tingles, and love rushes through my heart.
    I don’t know the Mexican anthem. Not a single line, not a single word. I look upon the Mexican flag and see something foreign, something that I’m not. I don’t feel anything for that banner. Why would I? I haven’t stepped on Mexican soil in the past fifteen years. I don’t know their story, their free, their brave—I don’t know their fights or dead heroes or graves. I wouldn’t stand up for their anthem. So I ask: how am I not an American?
    Then there’s my home country’s language. I know Spanish, but English is my dominant language by far. I’m a university student at Alabama A&M—I’ve been published in several literary magazines; I’ve gone to school in the U.S. since kindergarten. My English vocabulary is quite advanced. In Spanish, however, it is equivalent to an eleven or twelve-year-old’s. I can’t hold deep discussions with family members. I can’t form graceful compliments or romantic dialogue; I can’t speak of my ambitions with fervent passion. I can’t opine on politics in depth—and I certainly can’t write. I have a cage holding me, strangling my wings, grinding me down. My first language is a prison, the foreign one my freedom. How am I not an American?
    Loyalty and love—these two feelings form my life’s aspirations. I wish to pursue a career in law enforcement or perhaps even serve in the U.S. military. I am willing to risk myself for this country—for my home. What about Mexico? What about it? I feel no love for it at all. I wouldn’t die for it; I wouldn’t pick up any gun for it. I feel respect toward U.S. soldiers when I see them—standing in full battle gear, rifles at the ready, or walking down the street in dress uniform. Grim-faced, determined. I feel gratitude. By contrast, there is a hopeless void when I see Mexican troops. My family tells me most are bought off by cartels and allow corruption to run rampant in their nation. Where were they when their university students were gunned down during a protest? Where are they when people are beheaded or abducted from the streets? There’s nothing to be proud of. Just things to be ashamed of. Look into my heart. How am I not an American?
    I feel invalidated that my family cannot truly see who I am. Perhaps they wish to remind me of my Hispanic roots; this is fine, but their methods are insulting and do little to sway my heart. The United States is called a melting pot for a reason; I have joined it, and I am devoted to it. As a consequence, my family’s rebuttals are a challenge to the very person I am. This draws much acrimony. It’s galling how much racial discrimination they employ against me. You don’t have to be white to be an American. To subscribe to such a requirement is plain asinine. Are African Americans, Asians, and Native Americans not true U.S. patriots? Does their loyalty count for nothing? Does mine? I loathe that remark about the nose and facial features—it’s elementary, crass, and in poor taste. My person is not defined by ethnicity.
    Yet, throwing all of that aside, for me, and many others in my situation, there is a catch-22. Even if I were to proclaim my own nationality, my family and others within my ethnic group would likely turn around and say NO. In my case, they’d probably drill me on the Mexican anthem, history, traditions, and then leap at my ignorance. They’d say I’m not a “true” Mexican. Then what the hell am I? Nothing? Is there no way to stave off the loathing? I’m sick and tired of the double standards; I cannot adhere to whatever label is cast. They bring me here at the age of four, and I grow up like any other child—white, black, Asian—and then they have the audacity to say that this isn’t my home? That I’m not American like those who have grown beside me? They get offended? It’s their fault. They brought me here. They made me who I am.
    Perhaps they can’t assimilate into American culture, but I have. In my heart, I am American. It’s a plain and simple truth for me and for many others. It’s astounding how native-born Americans can be accepting over this, but my own family can’t swallow reality when it smacks them in the face. Ultimately, however, the only thing that matters is what I believe. And I believe I am a beautiful red, white, and blue—awash in breathtaking, luminescent stars.

 

Previously Published at GFT Press

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