There are remnants of that world here, too. The world that would wash over any brown with white. And sometimes with a brush that drowns. Now I live in the Pacific NorthWest, and while Mexicans do live around here (and I mean Mexicans who have moved from Mexico), it is also the land of very particular brand of Whiteness, and I mean a Whiteness as in an utter and extreme form of Whiteness. If you know the history of this area, then you may have an inkling of what I am talking about. And it's a scary thing. You can pick some of it up when you walk around. See it in the eyes here and there. Feel it in the stares. It's not always comfortable, and reminds me too much of why I ran so far from my Mexicanness as a boy.

This may be something to consider when a reader notes my persistence in talking about these divisions. It's not only that I am courting awareness within myself like never before (which is a lot of it, for if you've been closing your eyes for years, the light at first is painful and all-enveloping); it is also that my environment presses a certain awareness upon me. This hate toward the Brown was much more subtle where I did some growing up, as there were really no Mexicanos in the woods of New York. Everywhere I have lived growing up—and we moved a lot—brought a different experience. Never once could I settle into any one feeling. And this led to, perhaps, my not knowing what to think or feel about being and looking different than my mother and adopted father.

Miami Beach was the one place I remember where being Brown was okay, and was just as accepted as being Pink. Because there, you shared a schoolroom with Blacks, with Puerto Ricans, with Haitians, with Cubans, with Mexicans, with Whites. But most of my time was not spent in Miami Beach. Much of it was spent in the woods of the North East. And there, the eight-month Winters will swallow up even the idea of Brownness.

Here in the Pacific Northwest it is yet different. It is just as woodsy and just as White...but there are also real live Mexicans here. So there is a real tension, especially given the history of the area—which is steeped in "White Power." This is the area many of the White Supremacists envision as being the site of their future collective base. That is extreme, and not the majority. But mira: the worst part of that is that the "normal" Whites, the ones who are not affiliated with any hate groups soak up all the media and sentiment and the area's history without being aware of it. Just as I did for years. This is the idea of the White Lens. So there can exist much racism, but in that very sly way that it can exist. When I am down in Long Beach/LA area, in a more Brown area, I think the vibe that surrounds me will change a lot, and in turn, so will my focus. In this place, I often feel on edge. Even mi ruca's brother has etched White Power/Skinhead tattoos into his arms with his own hands. I know underneath those flows the same color blood as mine. And I know he has a good heart, I do. We didn't get along at first. In fact, he came to his sister's house banging on the door and looking to introduce me to his knife. We worked that out, and currently I can say that we get along very well. But...I don't think I can say I'm sorry that I don't have to see his tattoos in front of me, as he is currently off on his journeys around the country. And I'm happy that the objects with skinhead symbols were hidden or thrown out by his mother a month or three after I came to the area. You see, I don't want my new daughter memorizing those symbols or associating them with pleasant childhood memories. She deserves a better self-image. It is too bad that my eldest hija has been indoctrinated by her mother's mother to feel the same way about her Mexicanness as I was taught by the dominant culture, but then again, she (her maternal grandmother) is very much of that culture. Republican politician's (ex) wife. She says things to my darling daughter like "Oh, you are only --% Mexican," if it even comes up. Meanwhile, in the summer, my daughter turns as dark as an Indian. Her (aging, unhealthy, and soon to leave this world) Grandmother buys m'ijita Disney® tapes and nice little Shirley Temple movies (some of which I have thrown out) which show the happy, curly little White girl telling the nice Negroman to dance while she plays a little flute. Welcome to America, Dear little Macaca....

When (and it's always "White") people talk to me now about the non-existence of Race, I do understand their point. I do understand the history of their paradigm. We learn that Race was invented by Europeans in order to draw a political, ethical, moral line between themselves and those they feared and did not respect and would overrun and conquer and kill and enslave—whether it be African or Indian from the North part of "America" or Indian from the warmer parts of the "American" continent, or any of the other indigenous humans of the earth. Yet, when I speak of race as I have experienced it, of course do mean just that: how I have experienced it. Because my early education on these matters did not include much actual learning. It did not include these eye-opening ideas, these college ideas that people drop so casually now as if I can go back in time and shake off the ideas and feelings and values I absorbed through the culture. So for me, it is O!!! Now you want to discount race. Now!!! Now that I've learned why I should be proud of those things the mainstream culture has tried to used to beat me down? Now that I am finally proud of the differences between the dominant culture and myself? Now you want to take that away?

Too late. You should have told me young, when I was a boy. You should have said "you're a little browner because humans all over the world are different shades and your heritage reaches back to Mexico and all her ancient cinnamon chocolate blood." I did not get that from the media or my peers. You should have soaked the movies with the idea that we are all one, bound by our needs, our hopes, our vulnerabilities, our smallness in the face of Everything, our struggle against the entropic part of ourselves, the weakness we become when we wall ourselves away from others. I did not get any lesson like that from the movies. I got the very same thing some give me now. Oh? Mexico? Land of drugs and violence and woman-hating men? Nothing down there to see! Nothing down there to be proud of. Just like you and your blood. Build a wall! Yes, fine, you want to build a wall to keep all the Mexicans out. Perhaps that will work for you.

But I cannot build a wall around my heart, you see. You should not have taught me how gross you—White America—thought Mexicans were. Back when I was young, of tender mind and unformed thought—that's when you should have come 'round and talked up that sweet nosuchthingasrace junk. You should have taught me that we are all reliant upon the Earth, and she is reliant upon all of us. Of an interweaving; a holistic, inclusive sea of be-ing. Not of divisions of control and judgment, not that some have the right to rule over and judge and exploit and destroy others. But no matter. I will teach it to those who listen. My children, myself, anyone else.

I've learned to see past the wall of messaging. I've learned to tear down the constructs of degradation and separation. Or I'm trying. I've taken to reading up on my own. In believing in myself. Even when people stop by my blog and tell me what a lazy, backward, gross people are my kin. I am no child, you see. You can't convince me to hate myself even with the fiercest loathing you bring. I'm older. I'm stronger. I'm far bolder. Now I see mi antepasados as beautiful people; I see Mexico as a beautiful, struggling people; I look in the mirror and the parts of me that once I hated, now I love. I love to see the Indian flash across my face, the darkness of my eyes, my hair, the thick, coarse quality of it; my skin. I embrace who I am with pride now.

Now you want to declare that There is No Such Thing As Race?

Too late. I agree with your original lesson. There is a difference. And there is a division. Maybe one day we will heal it. But it exists, and I know because I look out and see it, hear it. The laws still speak it. And the police still Swiftly repeat it. I know there is a division because I fell into that chasm, and was lost for a while. I did not invent the line that draws down between Them and I. I was led to it over time. In that space, I learned that I was Other. And that's what I had. Other, and actually, unwanted by Either. Or at least, that's how I felt.

Oh yes, I was taught by the world that there is race. And I was taught by the world what mine was. It was never in one long lesson, but in a million clues that I learned this. Even by the lack of any other Mexicanos in my neighborhoods. For when you look to the sea of those that surround you and note, every day, that they are nothing like you and want to be nothing like you, it is easy to understand that you are the ugly duckling. I am a quick study. And so with a million clues and one broken wing, I learned to fly from myself.

I almost got away.

This is the second in a series.

As with all my posts, this series is intended as a means of my teaching myself, remembering what I have forgotten, asserting my own self-love/growth, and helping to open lines of honest communication. I say this because this seems to be a touchy series. Also, I am sorry for the comments that are no longer showing on the first installment, I have not yet carried them over from the old Haloscan system of commenting, but I will later today.