Living Beyond Borders Read online

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Philomel, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Margarita Longoria

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Longoria, Margarita, editor.

  Title: Living beyond borders : growing up Mexican in America / edited by Margarita Longoria.

  Description: New York : Philomel Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021. | Audience: Ages 12 up. | Audience: Grades 7–9. | Summary: “An anthology of short stories, essays, poetry, and comics about the Mexican American experience”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021015489 | ISBN 9780593204979 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593204993 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mexican Americans—Literary collections. | CYAC: Mexican Americans—Literary collections.

  Classification: LCC PZ5.L7295 2021 | DDC 810.9/86872—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021015489

  Edited by Liza Kaplan.

  Cover art © 2021 by Louisa Rivera

  Cover design by Kristie Radwilowicz

  Design by Monique Sterling, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  For my father, Jose “Rosie” Longoria. My hero.

  And for my Three Bears: Eliseo, Michael, and Mateo—my boys, my everything.

  CONTENTS

  Dear Reader

  Ghetto Is Not an Adjective by Dominic Carrillo

  Yoli Calderon and Principal Hayes by Angela Cervantes

  Warning Bells by Anna Meriano

  I Want to Go Home by Justine Marie Narro

  How to Exist in a City of Ghosts by Carolyn Dee Flores

  Filiberto’s Final Visit by Francisco X. Stork

  CoCo Chamoy y Chango by e.E. Charlton-Trujillo

  Tell Me a Story/Dime un cuento by Xavier Garza

  My Name Is Dolores by Guadalupe Ruiz-Flores

  “There Are Mexicans in Texas?”: How Family Stories Shaped Me by Trinidad Gonzales

  Morning People by Diana López

  Ode to My Papi by Guadalupe García McCall

  The Body by the Canal by David Bowles

  Is Half Mexican-American Mexican Enough? by Alex Temblador

  Sunflower by Aida Salazar

  La Migra by René Saldaña Jr.

  La Princesa Mileidy Dominguez by Rubén Degollado

  Ojo by Sylvia Sánchez Garza

  La Llorona Isn’t Real by Xavier Garza

  This Rio Grande Valley by Daniel García Ordaz

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed. You cannot uneducate the person who has learned to read. You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride. You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore.

  – César Chávez

  Dear Reader,

  The idea for this anthology arose when our heritage came under attack in the media. Witnessing the constant spread of negative information fill my newsfeed, I felt compelled to do something. To fight back against the damaging rhetoric and biased images that clashed with the culture I lived and loved. To hear Mexicans being blanketly implicated as violent and as rapists, as illegal and bad people, infuriated me. This portrayal, meant to dehumanize and demonize our ethnic group, felt like an attack on our humanity and not the depiction of the Mexican people I knew.

  I wanted a collection of stories that represented what it means to me to be a Mexican American living in America today. In these stories I wanted hope, family, friendship, and empowerment to shine through and help heal this hate. I wanted to explore our horrific past—the borders we have crossed, the obstacles we have pushed through, both metaphorically and physically—and acknowledge the self-imposed confines we often struggle with as a result of the oppression that has plagued our culture and our people for decades.

  Through this collection of stories, personal essays, poetry, comics, and more, I wanted to educate others and celebrate the beauty and uniqueness of the Mexican American culture. Because the Mexican American people I know are resilient. We will not live in fear of who we are, or be ashamed of where we come from, and we will continue to show the world that we are seeds. Plant us in any environment and we will thrive. We are proud of who we are, and we are humble in our work. We have dignity; we try to embody the best of humanity. From doctors and CEOs to custodians and fieldworkers to teachers and more, the tapestry of our people, our labor, and our contributions to this country is woven tightly into the infrastructure of this land we call home.

  I am a Tejana. I grew up along the southernmost tip of Texas in a place that borders Mexico called the Rio Grande Valley. Despite the violent beginnings that settled this area, the Valley is a warm and inviting place. Growing up where I did, I have always felt lucky to be able to experience the best of both worlds. To live on the cusp of two cultures, to be able to embrace, appreciate, and grow in two countries was an adventure that has helped shape who I am today. Yet even now I am reminded of the common misperceptions of and the injustices faced by those who live with Spanish surnames—from the belief that you must be fluent in Spanish to the assumption that you are not American to the discrimination and bullying Mexican Americans face from native English speakers.

  This is made worse by the fact that crossing back and forth is normal for most of us living along the border—regardless of what side you live on. Whether it is to shop at a store, visit a doctor, travel across to work, or eat at a restaurant, border towns on both sides depend on each other to survive and to flourish. We are a blend of each other. My hope in creating this collection is that you, dear reader, may see a side of life, inside our culture, that is not often portrayed in the media.

  After all, it is this misconception of life along the Mexico border that has made such an impact on the way many people perceive what it means to be of Mexican descent. I can still remember the fear I felt as a little girl when my family would travel north in Texas, out of the Valley, and the US Border Patrol would ask, “Are you American citizens?” There was no reason for me to be scared. I was always with my dad, and we were all American citizens, born and raised, yet I always felt uneasy. I remember asking my dad, “Why do they ask us that? What if they do not believe me? What if they do not believe you?” He would always pacify me with “They are just doing their job. They are looking for bad guys, they are looking for illegal activity, they are not going to hurt you, just tell them the truth.” But this never made sense to me. “Then why don
’t they just ask us if we are bad guys? Why do they ask if we are American? We are coming from home. We live in America. Why are they asking us to declare our citizenship when we have never left the country?”

  This is life for those of us living on the border.

  When I moved away from home, discrimination came in more subtle ways. I can still remember being stunned when I was told my English was great “for a Mexican.” I remember feeling perplexed when I was praised for my “extensive” vocabulary. And I remember the time my boyfriend and I were stopped by a police officer while driving around an affluent Houston neighborhood late one night, looking at the big pretty houses in a new truck my mother had just bought me. The officer wanted to know who owned the truck and what we were doing in that area. Over time, these kinds of incidents and statements began to anger me.

  As Mexican Americans, we have always needed to defend who we are, where we were born, and prove to others that we are in fact Americans. Although I am proud to be an American, my Mexican heritage is one that I have always loved and fully embraced as well. Yet we are forced to be on the fence, not because we do not want to belong to both worlds, but because society demands that we choose a side. Where do we want to belong?

  As Mexican Americans, we have always had battles to fight, stereotypes to break, prejudices to disprove, and stigmas to overcome. And as a collective people, we long to defend ourselves from the unjust. Our ancestors have pushed through many borders for us already, yet our work is still not done. The Mexican culture is full of life, full of color, and full of beauty. We are not a one-size-fits-all people; we come in all shapes, sizes, and hues. My parents raised me to see diversity as a gift, and I believe it is our differences that make each of us important.

  This is the culture I wish to share with you. And I’m so grateful that many other Mexican Americans feel the same way.

  Some of the best writers of Mexican American literature today have risen to the occasion in contributing to this anthology for you, our youth, our future. You are the best of all of us; you are our heart and soul. You will take the strides that have been paved before you and blaze your own trails, bigger and better. Wild hearts and passionate spirits live through you. You will make the difference; you will help to heal our plight; you will represent the real America.

  Si vas a soñar, sueña en grande,

  Margie

  GHETTO IS NOT AN ADJECTIVE

  by DOMINIC CARRILLO

  Cell phone dead.

  Not good for Senior Ditch Day—especially when you’ve got places to be.

  I had no clue what time it was as I walked toward the closest bus stop on Thirtieth Street.

  Ask the bus driver, I guess. This bus thing is still new to me.

  Of all days for my car to not start . . . Correction: my parents’ car. It was usually that, or rides with friends. Never the bus.

  If I had just asked the bus driver earlier that day, then two stupid detours could’ve been avoided. Thankfully, the bus arrived at almost the same time I made it to the empty bus stop bench, where I noticed the cheesy ad of a slick, dark-haired real estate agent.

  Trust Me: Mark Rodriguez, it read.

  Must be a pocho like me. Half Mexican, half white. Not fully accepted in one world or the other. Too Mexican for some, not Mexican enough for others. I bet he can’t even speak Spanish—kind of like me. But did language have anything to do with it? Who made the rules on what being Mexican was or wasn’t? I’d always been told to check a box—to fit in one category or the other. But it wasn’t ever that easy. And why did it matter?

  I stepped on the bus and flashed my all-day pass as if I were a public transit veteran. At the risk of blowing my cover, I asked the chubby driver if I was on the right bus—the one that continued through South Park, Golden Hill, and headed into downtown. He confirmed this with surprisingly little annoyance in his voice. I thought about asking him more questions. I had already messed up twice and been lost too much that day. So I lingered by the driver.

  “What time is it?” I asked him.

  The exhausted sighs of the few people waiting to get on behind me told me that one more question was one too many. But I stood there anyway.

  The driver’s thick head didn’t move. His sunglass-covered eyes were laser focused straight ahead. I thought he didn’t hear me at first.

  Then he finally spoke. “Three twenty-six,” he said. “Look, my job is to drive. Next question’s gonna cost you a dollar.”

  Jesus Christ, where did the time go!? Sure, a broken-down car and some rookie bus mistakes would make me late to the Senior Ditch party downtown, but three hours? I could hear the Mexican late jokes already—the laughter of certain white boys who seemed to be experimenting with racism and what they could get away with.

  I picked a seat toward the rear, closer to the Mexican junior high students in the back than those sitting near the front. Sitting in the back seemed more interesting because the students were actually talking to one another, lounging along the rear wall and on the side benches, making it a communal area—everyone facing inward. I didn’t fit in, but I wasn’t trying to either. I was just there to eavesdrop on my way downtown.

  The most vocal were two teenage Latina girls with tightly pulled-back black hair and heavy eyeliner. They were sitting adjacent to me, chatting away, occasionally going into a whiny, singsongy Spanglish that was harsh on the ears. A Mexican guy with dark-rimmed glasses sat across from them. He looked more like a young college student who had recently adopted Che Guevara as his personal hero—or at least his fashion consultant. We both sat there, listening to the girls’ chatter without staring directly at them, and knowingly glanced at each other once—aware that we were distracted by the same thing.

  As the bus started toward downtown, the two teenyboppers’ piercing voices, foul language, and shrieking laughter were becoming intolerable. They were in that junior high stage when obnoxiousness and vulgarity made someone more popular among their insecure peers. But I guess it was pretty normal teenage banter. Then they said it—a word I had previously given little to no consideration.

  “That’s so ghetto!” the skinnier one said.

  “You’re ghetto,” the other snapped back.

  The Che Guevara guy’s eyes lit up and filled with fire. Now he turned toward them, his brow lowered in distress.

  I didn’t get it at first, but he’d obviously reacted to the word ghetto. I’d heard ghetto used in such a way before but thought nothing of it aside from its technical misuse.

  “I am not ghetto,” the skinny one replied sassily.

  “You are toooo GHETTO!” the other repeated.

  “What?” Che interrupted them.

  He seemed agitated, but more out of intense philosophical interest than raw aggression—as if he were an impassioned professor of social justice. Maybe it was the thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Whatever it was, the girls stopped their bickering. Shocked into silence, they turned their powdered noses and blackened eyebrows up at him.

  “What does that mean?” he repeated.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” the skinny one said with attitude. Her friend snorted, clearly pleased with the rude comeback.

  They weren’t ready for an interruption or disapproval from some stranger on the bus. They were unaware of the gravity of the situation.

  So was I.

  “What does calling someone ghetto even mean?” Che asked.

  The two girls looked both surprised by the question and puzzled by what may have seemed like too obvious an answer—an answer to a question they’d probably never considered. The more talkative flaca with flashy fingernails and a black Sharpie in her hand spoke up.

  “Ghetto means”—she hesitated—“bad—you know—dirty or poor or ugly-looking.”

  “Yeah, all those things,” her friend chimed in.

  Che nodded and smirked in both ac
knowledgment and disappointment, as though he’d expected that exact answer from them. Then he leaned over more deliberately, crouching toward them with his elbow on his knees. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. It looked as if he were preparing to spring on them, like a lion ready to pounce.

  “Ghetto is not an adjective.” He said it in a calm yet commanding voice.

  The two girls turned to each other in what seemed to be confusion and discomfort. Awkward. By the looks on their faces, they probably didn’t even know what an adjective was.

  Che repeated, with growing intensity and clear enunciation, “Ghetto is not an adjective. It is a noun. It’s the place where I live.”

  All of a sudden, that the bus was moving south, that there were over twenty other people on it, and that it was the middle of a comfortable San Diego afternoon didn’t matter. This large vehicle had become a vessel—a stage—for a poetic, mysterious man to express to two captive girls (and all of us other passengers) his perspective on what ghetto meant to him. They had no idea that their use of the word might disturb someone so deeply. And neither did I. But it must have meant the world to Che, because he rose to the occasion. Literally.

  He stood up and continued what appeared to be part soapbox rant and part spoken-word poetry:

  “For me it’s Barrio Logan to be exact, but that lone fact is insignificant.”

  He made the words exact and fact punch us in the face with emphasis, rhythm, and a cadence that sounded well practiced. Yeah, this guy was a pro. He continued, to the girls’ surprise, with a driving sense of purpose:

  “There’s no Sherman, or Logan, or Shelltown to those on the outside looking in.

  It’s all ghetto to them.

  Safely kept at a distance—

  mostly imagined on pixelated screens

  or glanced through car windows at high speeds.

  And it’s okay, as long as we stay in it,

  except in transit