by Jose Mora
Hi my name is Jose.
Yes I am Mexican, but I feel that I am not
For the moment, my name may be the only thing Mexican about me.
Casi no puedo hablar mi españole.
And I’m pretty sure I lost my accent in the second grade, when Eric laughed so hard at the fact that, no I did not when jello, instead I was trying to say the color yellow.
My gringo accent is so thick, I can choke on my own words.
Kind of like saying supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, three times and three times as fast.
The warm sun that use to constantly hit my face was left behind,
alongside the dark features it gave me.
The color of my hair, light brown in the sun with a hint of gold and the never ending waves of curls on my head can keep people guessing.
“Are you mixed? No... Are you white? No, but thank you. Argentinian? That’s the first.”
And when I smile, the edges my dark brown eyes slant,
I think I can pass for some sort of asian.
Mexican national anthem? I don’t know it.
It’s not that I am ashamed, some may call me ignorant.
And it is true that my blood is 100% full and proud but does not bleed the names of Mexican leaders, and heroes and its culture.
I want to experience my culture. But where do I start?
Taco and Burritos? How typical.
I imagine my mother preheating a stew so large it can feed us for weeks.
As she continue to carefully add ingredients one by one, the steam fills my home and brings me back to a time where I was back in my home country. A room full of laughter and family, it’s christmas eve and we are about to eat my favorite dish. Posole. I take a deep breath, and I snap back to reality, I continue to watch my mother she adds, carne de puerco, lechuga, oregano, cebolla, y maiz.
For now, my name “Jose” may be the only thing Mexican about me.