My years
spent as an elementary teacher usually colors the way I see most holidays.
In the classroom, my favorite thing to do was to say "Let me tell
you something that the other teachers won't tell you..." It
made the students pay attention, and made them feel that they were in on a
secret: the secret truth that is history.
I love
bringing light to things that I find interesting... Cinco de Mayo is
one of them. My post can be a little deeper, if you are seeking history.
But what I am about to tell you is how this holiday has affected my
heart, and how awkward it was to grow up Hispanic in a farming town in the 70's
and 80's.
It
starts with my my childhood in Tracy, California.
I grew up
with a Mexican-American mother, Juana, who had her name "American-ized" to Jennie
as a small girl. I never sensed any conflict in this, and there was never
a discussion of when it happened. My father was of Irish descent, and
came from Boston - his name is Jack. So, Jack and Jennie had five
stunning little kids, all delightfully beautiful - not "too
white".
I was not
Irish only, but I had the Irish pride. I was not Mexican only, but I had
the Mexican coloring. No one told me that if I ever left American soil
and moved to Africa, I would be known as "the American" and no one
would ask about my ethnic heritage.
In high
school, a few days before the Cinco de Mayo parade in town (if you've never
been to one, you are missing a true slice of Americana) I
found out in the Tracy Press that Melissa, my sister Shari's friend, had been
voted Cinco de Mayo queen - the queen of the parade that would be held in
town. She’d get to ride on a convertible
surrounded by color and flowers. I was livid...what a faker! She
was like me, pretty damn white; not a "real" Hispanic. What right did she have to call
herself a Cinco de Mayo queen? Now she would be paraded in front of the
whole town and worshiped, along with our Lady of Guadalupe, like she was
a real Mexican girl.
I threw the
paper down, angered by the irony. As I got ready for school, I questioned my own schizophrenic
reaction. Why did I care about a stupid Mexican parade anyway? It was then I realized that part of me felt
orphaned. Deep down inside, I was the faker. I had an Irish
surname, that identified me as a proud Irish girl; I also had brown eyes
and a perpetual tan that was the envy of my friends. How much did I celebrate
my own Mexican-American heritage?
In the
carpool on the way home, Melissa's reign was the subject of conversation.
"Did you
see that Melissa is going to be Cinco de Mayo Queen?" one of my friends
said. "She definitely was the prettiest one of all the girls who
were running."
Everyone
agreed, and said even her picture in the paper was gorgeous. Cinco de
Mayo queens are not known for making speeches, just looking good.
"Hey,
Janet," one of my other friends said, "Why didn't you run for Cinco
de Mayo queen?" He meant it as a compliment, really. He didn't know
how much the whole thing bothered me.
"I don't
have enough Cinco in my Mayo." I replied
flatly. Everyone thought that was funny, even my mom laughed.
The thing that bothered me was that I
didn't know how to do it - be a Mexican-American. After all, Cinco de
Mayo, while celebrated in Puebla like a bomb, is not such a popular holiday in the
rest of Mexico. In the States, it had turned into a Hispanic Pride Day
where all of the real cowboys of California got out their black suits and big
sombreros and rode atop horses carrying Mexican flags. It was when the
pretty Mexican girls dressed up in big skirts and made hypnotic circles with
them while they danced.
That one day
was the day for Hispanic pride; all the other days of the year didn’t seem so
nice for the Mexican kids, so I never admitted to being one of them. After all, many of them were poor and got
free lunches because their parents were working the fields. Many spoke
Spanish before they spoke English and drove low riders or shiny big cars
that had air horns. I could count my real Mexican friends on one
hand, and my personal hypocrisy was starting to wear on me.
In
reality, I got in touch with my Mexican heritage in the kitchen. La
cocina is where every Hispanic woman becomes a real Mexican. It
started in high school when I worked out my half-Hispanic chica that lay dormant in me.
I learned the secrets of a good enchilada sauce from my grandma. I
made masa with her and rolled
tortillas next to her; mine came out "like maps" my grandma said.
Eventually,
after the challenge of the teen years, I became less shallow, and less consumed
with myself. I began to read quite a bit and what I found out that the
history of Cinco de Mayo helped me. After all, the holiday had to be about
more than how to make the perfect margarita, right?
As a
Californian, I can honestly say that I never struggled to learn how to celebrate
and drink margaritas... that came naturally.
I have
struggled to be a good representation to the Mexican-American side of my family
who have gone before me and given me their love and hearts and their faith.
I still seek out the truth, strength, and beauty of my people, who are
generally underestimated, still.
In my
kitchen, I am Mexican. In South Africa, where I was known as a white American
lady, I cooked tamales with a killer sauce that made me cry and miss my
family. It was then I knew I carried a lot of them with me.
Happy Cinco
de Mayo –
Let me tell
you something that the other teachers won't tell you..." It
made the students pay attention, and made them feel that they were in on a
secret: the secret truth that is history.
– here’s the
REAL STORY!!
In 1862, Mexico was huge, but the army was not as
advanced in Military strategy as the Europeans who had interests there -
France, Spain and Great Britain. The three countries, decided to unite and
force an uppity Mexico to pay back the money it owed to them, its foreign
investors. By the end of the year, Spanish ships from Cuba sat at Veracruz,
Mexico's largest port, joined soon after by ships from France and Britain, in a
not-so-subtle threat to Mexican sovereignty.
After several skirmishes with the French, on May 5
in Puebla, a large city between Mexico City and Veracruz, that the French
officially underestimated the spirit and the power of the Mexican army and were
defeated, badly. The Battle of Puebla, while a great show of strength,
didn't end the war. It took a lot of other battles, and slowly the world
took notice that Mexico was more than what they thought it was. President
Johnson, in order to protect American interests, sent the US Army to the border
to show our official support, and in 1866 the French withdrawl (not exactly an
official surrender) spoke volumes to the world. Mexcio was un-officially
sovereign.
News of the Mexican victory spread to the
western US when Mexican gold miners in northern California were so overjoyed at
their compatriots’ success that they celebrated by firing guns and singing
patriotic songs. Thus, Cinco de Mayo, the party, was born.