What defines the essence of what one is has to do with so many things it becomes difficult to define them. Certainly, part of what defined Lalo’s essence has to do with our family, not only in terms of its dynamics, but in regards to the two cultures that formed a part of it. Our Mother always strived to instill love and respect for both of them in us. Even as we celebrated Thanksgiving, we also spent a lot of time with her singing typical Mexican songs like “Cielito lindo”, “La llorona” and “Allá en el Rancho Grande”, while she accompanied us with the guitar. This “double life” had some peculiar consequences.

            Both Lalo and I learned English and Spanish at the same time, in spite of the family criticism, on both my Mother’s and Father’s side, that we would become “confused”. Apparently, when we began to speak, we both tended to offer a type of “simultaneous translation”. We’d say things like “perro-dog” or “luz-light” instead of simply opting for one term or the other. Later on, we began to separate both languages and, finally, all of us, my Mother and Father included, wound up speaking that strange combination of both tongues, the now famous Spanglish, which we use at home even now.

            But this also gave rise to some strange conflicts. My Mother enrolled Lalo at a bilingual kindergarten. Some days after classes began, the principle called her, furious because Lalo couldn’t speak English. When my Mother went to get him, she asked him insistently why he wouldn’t talk in English. Lalo just stared at her, mute. Once at home, the problem disappeared as if by magic. Apparently, he was “ashamed” to speak in English at school because the other children made fun of him. On another occasion, he wouldn’t speak to my Mother when he got back from school because “the gringos stole part of the National Territory”.

            This biculturalism requires a very fine balance. On both sides of the border, one is from over there, but not. One is from over here, but not. There is acceptance and rejection at the same time, from others as well as from oneself and within the family. You wind up being from nowhere and from both nations at once. One doesn’t want to offend and somehow you wind up trying to adapt to what is in front of you, reminiscent to what happens to the character of Zelig in the Woody Allen movie. One blends with one’s surroundings, with one’s interlocutors. But, somehow, in the end, a strange dual identity is created, a kind of “Spanglish” of the heart and soul.

Susana Olivares Bari