When I Was a Mexican

It was about mid September, I had just gotten into a university in Jersey. I was practically new to living in America, having spent all my life in the island of Puerto Rico. My English is pretty good, so I blended in with the crowd because I had no accent. But one day, I began to learn of a certain stereotype placed on us Hispanic people. That we are all Mexican in the eyes of Americans, why exactly? Who knows. But this did not bother me, until I began to talk to a certain classmate from my math class.

I will never forget this conversation, for it was going to be the first of many I was going to encounter here. We just left the last class, having found a common interest in Japanese animation, we began to chat about certain series we both like and all that. The conversation went smoothly until he asked me where I was from. I immediately told him I was Puerto Rican, and yet, in his eyes I could see a sign of small confusion. I was hoping he would know where it was. Sure it’s a small island on the Caribbean Sea, but its not hard to find. And without a moment’s hesitation, he belted out the response I would soon become familiar with, “so how far from Cancun is that?” I began to look confused, as though he wanted to know how far the island was, but I continued on. “What do you mean how far from Cancun is it?” I asked.

“You know, how far from Cancun is Puerto Rico?”

“Very far” I replied trying to hold my anger inside.

“But aren’t you Mexican?”

I quickly decided to play along, just to see how far I can go until he realizes that I’m making up a story. So I decided to give it a shot, and with one simple answer, it began. “Yes, I am Mexican.” I said. And so, I began to tell a story from the top of my head, wishing he would catch on to the fact I was going to make this stuff up from now on.

I began to tell him on how I lived in Puerto Rico with my brother Jose, my cousin Jesus, and my friend Ernesto. We lived in the “Mexican city of Puerto Rico”, you know, right next to the cities of Cancun and Mexico City. He just kept nodding, listening to my story. So far, he bought it all. So I continued. My brother and I wanted to look for jobs, but I also wanted an education in English. We all set out with my cousin Chewie, that’s what we called our cousin Jesus, and our friend Ernesto. I was the only one who spoke the best English in the group, followed by my brother and my friend Ernesto. Poor Chewie had little English experience.

So anyways, we set off from Puerto Rico to go up north to America. Of course, we made our way up north to the border. On the way there, my friend Ernesto began to wonder what we were going to do.

“Hey, how are we going to get past La Migra?” he asked.

“Simple my friend,” I continued, “we run fast, you know, just like the other Mexicans on the television.”

“So we just try to run like on Cops?”

“Exactamente!”

And halfway through it all, my cousin Chewie got all confused in our planning. “Oye, que pasa?” I quickly ran the directions by him, having my brother explain the whole thing to him in Spanish.

I took a break from the story to check up on how my classmate here, understood the story. He looked a bit confused, but still believing my story. So now that I had him hooked, I just had to reel him in for the finishing move. I was going to begin to stretch it in a way I never have before. This is where my improvised storytelling was going to take place. I wanted to make it sound so surreal, so extremely fictional, that he would have to realize that being Mexican and being Puerto Rican are two completely different things, to make him have the idea of same race, different nationality. So here I went, with nothing to lose, I decided to go overboard with my storytelling.

It was finally time to cross the border; there were the troopers and guards guarding the gigantic gate. We grabbed some straws and swam all the way across until finally arriving in American soil. The guards did not know of our escape, at least not until cousin Chewie hurt his leg while running, letting out a loud cry that echoed everywhere. “Coño! Mi pie!” he screamed. And with that, the guards quickly were on to us. We were running as fast as we could, almost like the Road Runner. We had La Migra on to us like the coyote, as we continued to foil him with cheap ACME products. So there we were, trying to outrun the border patrol. We all ran really fast, trying to reach a faraway train station that lead to the northern states. The guards were almost near us, we could see them flinging the handcuffs in the air. They were all dressed in black, like white ninjas swinging the nun chucks of migrating justice. I could smell hamburgers, the foods we only dreamt of eating. American cuisine.

We got on the train, sneaking into the carts through the windows. Finally, we were free. We have left Mexico and gone to America. And now we have found jobs, and finally found the universities we wanted.

My classmate had a face reflecting the confusion upon my story. I think he was finally on to me, he realized I’m not what he thought I was. “Fine, you’re not a Mexican, sorry for the assumption” he said. I finally smiled, extending my hand in a gesture of friendship. Obviously, he got the joke and didn’t feel offended, but before it was over he belted out another question. “So what part of South America is Puerto Rico in?” he rudely asked. And right there, I quickly knew it was going to be a long day.