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First car ride in America and Geography Class
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by Fermín Mendoza
My mom opens the pack of pink gum that the boy sold us on the boat over the Rio Grande. I bet he was seven fingers old, only three more than me. The flat, open land next to us smears against the car window as we speed through the empty road. In the backseat my sister and I imagine we speak English. Our eyes widen and our heads rock as we mimic the television characters we grew up with. The car floods with gibberish. Mom smiles and my brother pouts because he can’t speak our English. We stop for food and I enter my first McDonald’s. I can already taste the American dream. Power Rangers decorations bring the restaurant to life, and I am in heaven. With my burger comes a morpher, the thing the rangers use to turn into heroes. My brother and I marvel at its size and weight. It’s morphin’ time.
First day of geography class. Ninth grade. I know little about geography, but I’m excited to learn. Smells of kids eager to impress a crush fill the room. I taste hairspray, gel, perfume, shampoo. The desks are like soldiers afraid to step out of line. I pick a front-row seat and study the large world map on the wall, trying to name regions under my breath. Mr. Giordano starts talking. My eyes and ears focus. He gives our first assignment. One at a time, everyone will reveal their birthplaces. I stare off into the whiteboard, scared. No one in the room knows I was born in Mexico. People start giving simple answers I wish I could use: Houston. San Antonio. Someone says Matamoros, a Mexican city, but I can tell he has papers—he is confident, popular, and I think his parents speak English. I think about the name of my birthplace: Gustavo Diaz Ordaz, Tamaulipas, “Where-the-roads-were-made-of-dirt-and-family-hens-made-family-meals,” Mexico. I am sure this humble name will give me away. I look at the world map. I don’t even know where my hometown is. It’s my turn to share now. Diaz Ordaz, Tamaulipas, I tell Mr. Giordano. Is that a big city? he asks. Yes, I lie. I’ve never heard of it, he replies. The next student speaks. I wonder if the class knows I’m illegal.
My mom opens the pack of pink gum that the boy sold us on the boat over the Rio Grande. I bet he was seven fingers old, only three more than me. The flat, open land next to us smears against the car window as we speed through the empty road. In the backseat my sister and I imagine we speak English. Our eyes widen and our heads rock as we mimic the television characters we grew up with. The car floods with gibberish. Mom smiles and my brother pouts because he can’t speak our English. We stop for food and I enter my first McDonald’s. I can already taste the American dream. Power Rangers decorations bring the restaurant to life, and I am in heaven. With my burger comes a morpher, the thing the rangers use to turn into heroes. My brother and I marvel at its size and weight. It’s morphin’ time.
First day of geography class. Ninth grade. I know little about geography, but I’m excited to learn. Smells of kids eager to impress a crush fill the room. I taste hairspray, gel, perfume, shampoo. The desks are like soldiers afraid to step out of line. I pick a front-row seat and study the large world map on the wall, trying to name regions under my breath. Mr. Giordano starts talking. My eyes and ears focus. He gives our first assignment. One at a time, everyone will reveal their birthplaces. I stare off into the whiteboard, scared. No one in the room knows I was born in Mexico. People start giving simple answers I wish I could use: Houston. San Antonio. Someone says Matamoros, a Mexican city, but I can tell he has papers—he is confident, popular, and I think his parents speak English. I think about the name of my birthplace: Gustavo Diaz Ordaz, Tamaulipas, “Where-the-roads-were-made-of-dirt-and-family-hens-made-family-meals,” Mexico. I am sure this humble name will give me away. I look at the world map. I don’t even know where my hometown is. It’s my turn to share now. Diaz Ordaz, Tamaulipas, I tell Mr. Giordano. Is that a big city? he asks. Yes, I lie. I’ve never heard of it, he replies. The next student speaks. I wonder if the class knows I’m illegal.
