No Indios Need Apply
Dear NINA: Chalk the phenomenon up to the natural unfolding that is the American immigrant experience. Countries tend to dump their upwardly mobile, lighter-skinned natives on the United States before the shoddier, darker folks show up in the steerage of rusting freighters. Remember that northern Italians arrived at Ellis Island before their swarthy Sicilian paisanos. That’s what’s happening with Mexico. In his 1983 study "East Los Angeles: History of a Barrio," historian Ricardo Romo cites a 1922 demographic survey that showed that nearly two-thirds of the Mexican community of Los Angeles at the time originated from just four states: Chihuahua, Durango, Jalisco and Zacatecas. These states are in north-central Mexico, where the conquistadors spread their seed farthest and most vigorously.
As the twentieth century progressed, however, Mexico’s poorer, more indigenous states in the south tumbled like dominoes as they sent their populations to el Norte, subsequently ratcheting up the brownie mixture in the Mexican-American pot. Michoacán and Puebla (next to Mexico City) didn’t start sending their residents en masse to the U.S. until around the mid-twentieth century; Guerrero and Oaxaca followed around the 1970s; and our Central American colony, Guatemala, now follows. The push continues even in Mexico: In a 2004 Orange County Register piece, staffer Valeria Godines described the tensions between the güeros of Arandas, Jalisco, and Chiapan immigrants, showing that Mexicans can be as race-obsessed as their gabacho oppressors.
Dear Mexican: Why is it that when you invite Mexicans to a party, they feel compelled to bring along thirty of their relatives? I mean, bringing along two or three people would be no problem, but we don’t expect the number of people at our party to double by inviting an extra person!
Not Enough Food for Everyone
Dear Gabacho: Mexicans and parties — was there ever a more spectacularly grotesque coupling? We drink mucho, we eat mucho, we fight mucho, we love mucho, we mucho mucho. Examining the Mexican propensity to party, Mexican Nobel laureate Octavio Paz wrote, “The explosive, dramatic, sometimes even suicidal manner in which we strip ourselves, surrender ourselves, is evidence that something inhibits and suffocates us. Something impedes us from being. And since we cannot or dare not confront our own selves, we resort to the fiesta.”
But one thing we don’t do anymore is swarm parties with our extended family. Time was when Mexican immigrants would rent out labor halls to throw massive weddings, quinceañeras and baptisms, and invite the entire rancho (more than 1,000 people attended my baby brother’s christening reception in 1992, even norteño star Juan Zaizar)! But the Mexicans of my generation prefer subdued celebrations — invite-only, no kids, with lame, sobbing testimonials by the best men and bridesmaids and no banda sinaloense to deafen guests with its brass-band roar. For instance, my cousin is holding his wedding reception next November at the Yorba Linda Community Center, with an MC and a guest limit of 250. Considering that that’s about the size of the Miranda clan, there are going to be some angry primos next fall. Yes, Mexican parties are turning into prim-and-proper gabacho-fied affairs, Not Enough Food — so we’re taking over American society how?
Dear Mexican: Does your cesspool homeland of Mexico allow illegals to break the law and sneak in? Hell, no — but I guess it’s okay for the USA to allow it for you and your deadbeat wetback cousins. Go fuck yourself, and I am sure that this is not the first time you’ve heard that from a fed-up USA taxpayer who is sick of you parasite moochers from down south. Clean up your land if you want a good life. Don’t ride our coattails, you damn losers.
Klein in Van Nuys
Dear Gabacho: Parasitic moochers riding coattails? Olla, meet hervidor. Or, in English: Can’t wait for your beautiful brown grandchildren to take Chicano Studies 101!
Dear Mexican: Your statement that the beans assimilate as the previous immigrants? You’ve got your head up your ass so far that you don’t know which way daylight is located. The beaners aren’t educated, they can’t speak English, they remain on the bottom of the graduation rate of the country. No surprise: Look at the shithole country they came from — same stats.
Richard the Randy Racist
Dear Gabacho: It’s hard to take seriously a man who goes on about education but types the word “assimulate” as his e-mail subject line.