Comfort in One’s Skin

Pamela Carvajal Drapala

Excerpt from draft –

“A Little Bit of Heaven”

September 21, 2009

It took me a long time for me to realize that I was a Latina. I met so many different ethnic groups when I first entered O. C. Johnson Elementary School.  My friends were all colors. In the 60's, we never seemed to discuss color; we didn't even know those things were heating up in the Deep South at that time.

At O. C. Johnson School, we were treated as individuals, and no one ever brought it to our attention that we were, in fact that we were of different color. It was a unique situation then. We played together as a group and never had labels for each other, except for the very few . . . like the girl that we thought was a bad seed because she knew too much about the “bad words.”

           However, I can now admit that there were many times, when I was very young, that I desired to be tall, blonde, and blue eyed like the two skinny girls down the street in my old neighborhood.  I will also admit, I wanted Tommy, the white boy in first grade to like me more instead of the cute platinum blond girl Casey, but it never happened. I ended up with Paul, who was a dark eyed, dark hair little boy. I now wonder, since times have changed, if Tommy even married a blonde-haired person.

           In my late teens, I finally came to appreciate that my skin

did not burn while out in the hot sun to swim, bike, or hike with

my friends.  My skin always had a nice even tan, so whenever I

wore a sundress I didn't look ghostly like some of my pale-

skinned friends did. How they envied the color of my bronze

evenly tanned skin. I recall that even in elementary school

friends would comment about how my dark legs looked as

though I were wearing hosiery. Now as an adult, my skin has

lost its tawny golden glow, because I do not have time to be

outside as much as I used to.

I made my first lifetime friends at Hillside Place in Yuma. When we were in our early teens, my friend Linda and I would sometimes walk about a mile and a half and back so that Linda could eat her French fries at the drug store at the Yuma Mesa Shopping Center.  Her Mom insisted that Linda take an umbrella so that Linda's delicate white skin would not burn under the sun. Linda's mother knew that the sun would damage Linda's skin if she burned. Linda walked under the umbrella, and we went happily off to the shopping center. Linda ate her French fries; her cravings were gone until the next time, and I got a nice tan out of the walk.

Once, a female friend said that my childhood friend did not consider me a real Mexican because I did not speak Spanish. The only people that my friend considered were Mexicans were the ones who were "wet backs". I was in too much shock to say the words that now lay heavy on my heart.

In August, a few years ago, four aliens died crossing the Yuma desert seeking a new life, one filled with new opportunities, employment, and perhaps one day would have a chance to purchase land that they would call their own.

The journey through the Yuma Desert provides no Haven for those who travel the dry desolate land, as she has no mercy for those who are not prepared, familiar with her terrain or environment.

Hundreds perhaps thousand of aliens from other countries have died trying to cross from Mexico into the United States of America since the people discovered That American was “the land of opportunity”. I look beyond the borders wondering, what are the differences between the Mexicans who live south of the border and me. I do not find much difference other than they were born on the other side of the border. Once a while ago, my husband and I talk about coming to America, the way it used to be at the turn of the century. He said something about how his ancestors entered the States legally. Mine did, too. However, if I knew that a better life was somewhere else, I too would have to consider, should I enter a new land for new opportunity? They bleed; I bleed. They have hungered; I have hungered. They wish to lead a better life, and so do I.

I gained new insight on a man who forged his way through the desert at night and luckily survived. As I drove down country 14^th Street and the 16^th Street near the citrus groves that I adore, I saw him. An older man, wearing glasses, with a hat, a backpack, and praying on his knees; he then made the “sign of the cross”. The man was praising God that he had made the journey across the unwelcoming desert.

There were times, like the time I was working in the packinghouse upstairs as a receptionist in 1974 when the border patrol came through the building looking for illegal’s, a majority of the illegal’s ran and hid in the orange fields. My coworkers laughed at me and said, "Hey, where's your green card? They will soon be after you." I did not appreciate the joke; but that was not the point, I just felt sorry for those people who wanted to work, but did not have the proper papers to work. The only different between them and me is my family arrived in America before theirs. I thank my ancestors for arriving when they did, but I cannot help feeling bad.

As you can see, I am still in the discovery stages of my self-identity. Take food, for instance. Seventy-five percent of the food I prepare for my family is made from scratch and includes such Mexican food items as tacos, enchiladas, tamales, beans, rice, tortillas, and green chili. Now tell me, where do you suppose the recipes for our Mexican meals originated from Mexico? I know they were handed down to us generation after generation from our mother countries and our ancestors are from Mexico and Spain. And, just because the newer generations from both of my parents' sides have now been living in the United States for centuries does not change the fact that we now identify ourselves with being Latino.

Many times, I too have been confused with being of a heritage other than Latina. People often think I'm Italian or French. I always like to correct them because I am proud of being me.  We need to know the origin of our roots in order that we can also teach our own children to be proud of their heritage.

           One day, I heard a person talk about the titles of Mexicans, Latinos, Chicanos, Hispanics, and telling us that he learned something new about the those titles. He compared the titles during our break and told us that there was a cast system in the Mexican ethnic group.  He heard that Hispanics were of higher class than Latinos. If this is what they are saying about us our there, then we are not doing a very good job educating people about who we are.

People's choices are changing as times are changing. People are blending more than ever and it's not usual anymore to see a Black man married to an Anglo woman or an Asian woman with an Anglo man. I believe that many people in America will be a blend of many ethic origins. I welcome the day it happens. Perhaps there will be fewer prejudices in our world, and I have felt the prejudices myself while living in America. It is sometimes been painful, but I've overcome them by realizing that I am who I am.

It did not surprise me when I married someone of a different ethnic group. All my life I was surrounded by multi-cultural people at school, work, and the neighborhood I lived in.  Nevertheless, I never anticipated the displeasure that I received from others. I could not understand why they had not learned what I had learned growing up, that we are all the same. It has been over thirty-four years now since I married, and times they have changed, amen!

I am pleased to have met people from all over the world, from many nations across the globe. From China to England, from Germany to France, from Poland to America, Russia to Jamaica and my conclusion is . . . that people are people. They all want to be respected for who they are. Whenever I meet someone new, I am always friendly to them. A hello, “how are you?” can go a long way. People want to be accepted for who they are. They may look different than you and I, they may eat some strange foods, wear different clothing, sound different when they speak, and wear their hair different than we are used to, but inside, people are people.

Yes, I have heard many comments about the color of my skin in the past 50 years, and I am convinced that I'm going to hear a lot more about it before I die. However, that is to be expected, I suppose. I wonder sometimes why things are the way they are, and I wonder why we are so opinionated about our beliefs. I also wonder why we sometimes cannot get along because we differ from each other, but of course, Cain and Abel had the same problem, and they were brothers. Perhaps, one day we will all get along on this Earth. Meanwhile, we go through life doing the best we can with what we have.

I guess that like everything else, it takes time for us to become comfortable in our skin.  And, if we are fortunate, as we grow older, we will realize that God knew what he was doing when He created us as unique individuals of all shades and backgrounds.

(end)