Over the next few days, I went around telling my classmates I was Italian. I was hard-pressed to believe Mrs. Anderson and her assessment of my identify because my family and I bared little resemblance to Mexicans as they were first introduced to me. I also believed there was something about me that Mrs. Anderson did not particularly like, or perhaps did not approve of. I did not trust her, or her judgement.
The catalyst for my distrust in my teacher began with one notable occasion where she sent me to be with other problematic and unruly children in OCS (what that acronym stood for I still do not know) for a day. She believed I was responsible for damaging a decorative Mardi Gras mask that she kept on her desk amongst the stacks of files, scattered paperclips, cheap paperweights and a variety of stress balls she employed during class lessons. The sequined mask had an array of colorful feathers that beckoned unsupervised students to touch as she fraternized in the hallway outside the classroom.
When she returned, she called me to the front of the class and proceeded to berate me. When I protested her accusations, she called me a liar. She roared on about how I was disrespectful and inconsiderate of her belongings and demanded to know why I seemed to think it was acceptable to touch something that didn’t belong to me. I stood there helpless as my character and integrity was mauled and mutilated in front of my classmates. I focused on the wrath behind her dark almond shaped eyes. The dry, hardened layers of mascara did nothing flattering for her almost non existent eyelashes except make it all too apparent that she hardly blinked. I was the only witness to a small bubble of thick spit that had escaped the viciousness of her mouth. It settled where the red lipstick faded into the cracks of her thin lips which she pressed together as she waited for an answer to her question that I had no intention of answering. The red behind her eyes matched the red in her long scrawny neck that had an appearance and texture that made me think of plucked chicken skin. Not knowing how to receive the ridicule I was enduring by an adult, all inner-strength left me and took with it my pride and a substantial collection of tears. My punishment was to miss the class outing to the pumpkin patch later in the day. I sat in my mess of tears and snot in the dank, dark, secluded cubby staring at the graffiti etched into the side panels that enclosed the desk. I contemplated what I was going to tell my mother when she noticed I was pumpkin-less. As luck would have it, the class nerd took pity on me and presented me with a pumpkin before the end of the day and alleviated me of the lie I would tell my mother. I had a sneaking suspicion that it was his behemoth foot that was the true offender of the Mardi Gras mask’s demise.
It wasn’t until my mother eventually broke the news that we were indeed Mexican, that I gave up practicing my last name in an Italian accent and decidedly dropped the whole charade. Suddenly, I saw aspects of my life for what they were. The large extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins. The tan colored corn sausages with meat filling that were sent packaged in dry ice for the journey from Texas to Montana that I could never eat enough of were actually called tamales, and I learned my mother’s maiden name, Gonzales, was the same as a number of schoolmates’ last name. I was definitely a Mexican.
From that point, I tried my best to embrace the idea of being Mexican as I perceived it to be at the time. I begged my parents to buy me the favorited brand of blue jeans kids wore, Jinco Jeans. I thought I was too cool for school when I finally owned a pair that shared similarities. They were extremely baggy with a single sewn in stripe going down the pant leg with oversized back pockets. To make my appearance even more cringe worthy, I adopted the same vernacular and imitated observed mannerisms.
Around this time in the 5th grade, the Spice Girls took the prepubescent and teen audience by storm. My friends and I emulated the maverick group of young women and decided it was necessary that we give ourselves monikers just like Baby Spice, Sporty Spice, Ginger Spice, Scary Spice, and Posh Spice one afternoon during recess.
Our ten year old brains had limitations, so it is no surprise the names we chose lacked profundity. One friend was Slick, as a nod to the impressive helmet atop her head that was made from the dried and hardened hair gel of her pony tail she wore every day. Another was Morena, a Spanish word meaning brunette, just as Ginger Spice used her hair color as an identifier. Another was All-Star, for her talent on the basketball court. Asor was Rosa spelled backwards, and Maybellene was inspired by the favorited brand of makeup this particular friend used to draw in her shaved eyebrows, which was no-doubt passed down from her older sister. When it came time for me to pick a name, obviously all the cool names were taken, and I asked what they thought was a fitting name for me. I stood before this group of friends while they silently measured me up in my glasses and Jinco knock-offs. One suggestion was to find something referencing my large metal framed-glasses, but that was quickly dismissed as a smile grew on Slick’s round face. “You should be Wannabe.” This was the first of many times in my life where an insult was disguised to be acceptable as a compliment. The girls excitedly exclaimed it was perfect and suiting. I think I would have preferred Four-Eyes instead of Wannabe, but because of the sheer overwhelming support of the name, I graciously accepted.
Looking back at my wannabe ten year old self is no doubt mortifying. Even at the time I knew it was degrading (although true) which is why I was relieved when we decided it was easier to call each other by our real names after a week. All was forgotten in time, but for me this memory will endure. Despite the collection of mortifying and enduring memories accumulated over my life thus far, I’ve learned to laugh and not take myself too seriously. Instead of looking back on myself with pity, or pretend it never happened, I choose to analyze the details, and be kind and forgiving to my younger self. If not, I would likely be a complete cynic and a grouch. Memories like these are humbling, real, and most importantly, entertaining.
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