As I often do, I decided to go to the local coffee shop on my way to school and grab a coffee to sip during class. The barista, a funny looking short girl, with curly reddish hair and a small frame, complimented me on my attire—very flattering—and then on my accent. A truly friendly remark that could have made my day. Still, everything went down hill after she asked what should have been an innocent question: “where are you from?” “I am from Mexico City,” I answered.  She seemed really confused as she handed me my macchiato and started to mumble—insistently: “but… but… I don’t understand; you don’t look Mexican!” Sadly, this was not the first time (nor, do I suspect, will it be the last one) that I had encountered such a response: my skin is very fair, my eyes are light, my hair is dark blond (although right now it is bleached blond), my frame is small, and my accent is strange.  On top of that, I lived in Paris for a while and, according to some, a strange French accent seems to have taken over my Spanish accent. My answer, as I tried to be tolerant and friendly in spite of the fact that I am tired of that “flattering” racism that seems to still be acceptable everywhere, was straightforward: “well,” I said, “as there are many different types of Americans, there are also many different types of Mexicans.” That statement simply seemed to confuse her further, and eventually she simply opted to compliment my outfit.  For many, including myself when I was growing up as a child, the statement “you don’t look Mexican” could have seemed a compliment, since a) we assume that looking “non-Mexican” (i.e. white) is a desirable thing, and b) Mexicans all look—and sound—the same (which implies the existence of racial types).

I was raised, in Mexico City, in a family of foreigners: my family, Basque in origin and thus half French and half Spanish, had come to Mexico in the early fifties for business, and eventually stayed there. I attended a school for the Spanish community, some of my cousins went to the school for the French community, and the rest lived abroad, either back in Europe or in the USA. Most of the people around me were all of direct European descent, and in many subtle ways we were all raised to distinguish ourselves from the rest of the population, and to have a special pride in our European roots. This all means we all were raised with racism. It took me many, many years to realize this, and many more to eventually get rid of most of these terrible thoughts and feelings (and I say “most” because I believe the battle against racism, sexism, class issues, and the like is and will never be truly over). Thus, every time I encounter the “but you don’t look Mexican” statement I immediately feel a bit betrayed by the circumstances. I am Mexican, just like somebody of direct Mayan descendant is Mexican, or someone of Kenyan descendant is an American. Assuming that there are specific ways of “being Mexican” or “being American” means not only that we police behaviors and types (i.e. we have institutionalized racism, sexism, class differences, etc.), but also that we still believe that there are ways of being inherently betters that others. That is the core of the problem at hand here: in countries like Mexico and the United States, where race is still a serious issue that has not been resolved, the rights of citizenship and cultural ownership are reserved to those who look white (or behave white, or sound white, etc.). And if you are given such rights, in spite of not really being white, you should be very thankful and pretend; move on and mingle, you are one of us. Coffee, anyone?