The first time someone tried to save me from my mother was a rude awakening. At just four years old, I wasn’t worried about kidnapping. It was the words spoken that stuck with me, no matter how I’ve tried to forget.
“Are you sure that’s your mom? She doesn’t look like you. Your skin is much darker.”
This sounds ridiculous, but until that moment, I had no idea I didn’t look like my mother.
My mother was firm, but polite, with the stranger. On the way home, she convinced me to be grateful that so many people were looking out for me, all whilst impressing on me the importance of knowing her full name and our address.
Just in case, she said– though it was at least a decade before I understood what she really meant.
Just in case she couldn’t convince someone to give her child back.
There’s a word I say a lot in real life, amongst those I trust. Boom! Boom, I win. Boom, whoa! Boom, insight.
Though I speak it often, it’s a word I hesitate to type. People of my ethnicity– at least half of my ethnicity– have to think before making that sound.
It’s a sound made by a weapon that I won’t type here, because my birth name is nearly unpronounceable. Its roots trace back through thousands of years of Indian history–from generations of peace-seekers and healers– but it cannot be said easily, and when it is said, it is permanently associated with the actions of fanatical men who belong to an entirely different race than my own.
But it’s similar enough if you’re looking to lump me in with your nightmares.
Boom. That’s life.
People ask me what I am before asking my name. I can only assume that means it’s more important.
People ask how my parents– an Indian man and a Mexican woman– cope together.
“There are so many differences in culture”, they quiz with good intent and curiosity.
Somewhere in the back of my mind though, there is a strange woman holding my hand asking me if I’m sure.
Are you sure your parents belong together?
Are you sure they’re happy, or have they been grieving the loss of their respective cultures for 42 years?
I don’t mind the simple curious question, and I usually have great respect for the person asking.
The question is a mere symptom of a diseased idea.
I mind the sickness.
So many of us believe that people are inextricably tied to the labels they did not choose– and that those forced labels, or any labels, are somehow reflective of the choices they are allowed to make for all eternity.
Is my mother Mexican?
Yes, as much as anyone is. She can trace her lineage back to the beginning of the country– before it was named.
But if you gave her a page and asked her to write the words that describe who she is– that tidbit wouldn’t make a thousand-item list, or a ten-thousand item list– because she is so many other things.
No one has ever suggested that I can’t say “boom”, or write it. It’s something the sickness inside me manifested on its own.
Who knows when I was first infected? Perhaps it was decades ago, by the hand of a passing stranger on a mission of rescue.
A little virus was planted in my heart– a mere seedling of the illness that so many are afflicted by– and part of me is conditioned to look through the eyes of that stranger.
The one who didn’t see the love in my mom’s eyes. The one who didn’t hear our same, riotous laugh. The one who didn’t see me roll my eyes lovingly at my mother’s strange preoccupation with a porcelain hedgehog figurine.
The one who only saw our skin, and only heard my mother’s cooing Spanish words directed to a tiny girl in a salwar kameez.
The one who, presumably, would panic if I said boom.
I was born into skin that made it my responsibility to care for those afflicted by this type of sickness. So I learned my mother’s name, and the address on her ID, and I don’t say boom.
Except lately, I’ve started to rethink this. I don’t want to cause panic, but I don’t want to be sick either. This silly word is part of my reality. It’s absurdist, strange, and loud– three traits I inherited from the beautiful woman who I am sure is my mother.
Somewhere in my boom lies a piece of my authenticity, and today, this year, I’m letting go of the well-meaning but diseased hand that reached out to mine decades ago.
Boom.
_______________________________________
I work with kids. My heart tugs whenever someone makes a little girl defend her belonging. Something must be in the air because it’s happened twice this month. Sure, they’re probably just looking out– but I always think of my version of that moment and try to soften the shock where I can.
I’m not trying to make a big point or anything. I hope we all know discrimination exists. And I know we all know that people say silly things. And everyone has to come into their own and let go of things when they can, because time heals all.
I’ve just had this boom lingering in my head for awhile now and wanted to type it out.
Are you a clone of your parents or kids– or do you look radically different– or somewhere in between?
