Monthly Archives: June 2012

Divorciada!

It’s official, folks: The Daily Chicana is newly legally single! The final divorce paperwork came through–almost a year to the day that I announced to my ex-husband that I was leaving him–and I feel as though a 220lb weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Emotionally, I’m somewhere between here:

and here:

In honor of the occasion, I thought I’d stray from the race and ethnicity focus I’ve focused on in  my most recent posts, and instead provide my fresh insights on divorce. So here goes….

Daily Chicana’s Top 5 Divorce Tips

1. Know that despite your best intentions, the divorce will likely not remain amicable. On the day that I announced the separation, my ex and I both tearfully vowed to stay friends and and to never fight over dividing our things; we stoically agreed that possessions are merely possessions and not worth getting angry over.

Well guess how long that lasted? For about a month, until my ex realized that he was going to have to fork over a lot of money to buy me out and suddenly it wasn’t “fair” for me to ask for the couch or for my share of some savings that he hid away, all shady-style. And yes, you will probably learn that this person you completely trusted has suddenly developed a petty, vengeful side that you never knew about before.

Why does it go down this way? Because divorce is HARD. It’s emotionally and logistically taxing to assess the monetary value of everything you own and to go through the business of who takes what. Suddenly those “things” you weren’t ever going to fight over become symbols of your failed dreams and the vessels of your emotional baggage. I was so disgusted that I had half a mind to walk away with nothing; I just wanted to pack my clothes, books and my desk and leave everything else behind to start anew. My mom talked me out of that, though, by pointing out the cost of starting over completely from scratch. So I took some basic pots, pans and plates, as well as the living room furniture, and when I started up my new life, at least I had something to eat on and somewhere to sit.

2. Hire a lawyer. I have two colleagues who, when they were divorcing their wives, decided to forego a lawyer and save money by filing the paperwork themselves. This option really does save a lot of money; all you and your spouse have to pay for is the filing fee, which in our state runs about $300. They both had property and children, which made their case much more complicated than mine.

Nevertheless, I started looking at the forms and trying to sort through all the legalese…and I’m a pretty smart and well-read person, but it gave me a headache. And it made me nervous: filing paperwork ourselves would have meant that we had to go represent ourselves in court, which freaked me out. I suggest leaving it to the professionals. In my case, my ex-husband and I agreed to split the cost of a single lawyer and through it ran close to $4000 in the end, it was worth it for peace of mind. I could rest easy knowing everything was filed correctly. Plus the lawyer was on hand to authoritatively remind my ex that he had to give me an equalizing payment by a certain date, or else my ex surely would have dawdled and I’d be left permanently waiting for my money.

3. Keep track of every communication between you and your soon-to-be-ex-spouse. This tidbit comes from a friend of mine who went through his divorce a year before mine. He instructed me to open up an Excel file and log the date of every phone call, email, etc. that occurs between you and your spouse, as well as what the topic of conversation was and any agreements you may come to. It will help both you and your lawyer to have a detailed record like this if conflicts arise later (and there is a 99.9% chance that some sort of conflict will arise).

4. Limit your contact with your spouse (to the extent possible). This seems fairly obvious, but the less contact you have with him, the better because (a) he no longer needs to know anything about your life and what you’re up to; and (b) you can start getting over him sooner. In the beginning, it was hard to not talk with my ex on a regular basis because we’d spent ten years together and it was hard to imagine my life without him in it. Plus we had a dog together and though I got custody of him, I knew my ex missed him and wanted to hear how he was doing.

It was hard to transition from spouses to friends and we underestimated how much time that transition would take. Anyway, the more I talked to him, the more I found myself reminiscing about our good times and inside jokes, etc. I really needed to reduce the contact in order to start moving forward with my life. He told me later that he was really hurt when I de-friended him on Facebook and I told him, “Well what did you expect? We were getting divorced.”

5. Know that in the end, it will be so worth it. I am proud of myself for having the courage to make this very difficult decision. As I’ve written previously, my marriage wasn’t a horrible one. There wasn’t physical or emotional abuse; my ex and I were genuinely friends who enjoyed each other’s company. But that’s all it was. Imagine living with your best gay friend, having great companionship but absolutely no romantic fulfillment or sexual chemistry anymore. I knew that I deserved to be in a relationship with a full partner who gave as much to me as I have to give to him, and who pulled his own weight in the relationship rather than making me the tugboat. And even though there was no guarantee that I’d ever find that true partner, by staying in my marriage, I was absolutely guaranteeing that I would never find him. So I had to take the chance, face my vulnerabilities and take a big leap of faith.

Through the divorce process, I’ve discovered so much about myself; I have a better sense of my strengths and definitely much more self-respect. I’m healthier, happier and more invested in my own life. I look back now in amazement, asking, “Why on earth didn’t I do it sooner?!” Although this has been incredibly stressful, hurtful and costly thing I’ve ever lived through, it’s also been the best thing to happen to me (besides earning my Ph.D.). I’m finally free! And to me, that’s more than worth each penny spent and tear shed.

My jalapeño blood (part two)

In yesterday’s post, I briefly discussed my reluctance to answer questions about my ethnicity and race that come from white people whom I don’t know. Again, the post was inspired by a lady at the grocery store who observed that I can eat hot peppers because I have “jalapeño blood.” I used this interaction as an example of how tricky it can be sometimes to discern someone’s intentions behind those kinds of comments.

A Daily Chicana reader named Candace shared a long and thoughtful response to “My Jalapeño Blood.” She argues,

[W]e should give people a hard time for being pushy when asking about your race. What point would they have to be pushy about it other than being snarky? 9 times out of 10 thats exactly what is happening…at least in my experience. And see what I love about some of these people is that they don’t expect that you’re a smart or intelligent person at all. In fact they don’t even consider it, they don’t expect you to have a remark or to quip back at them. Or even for you to realize that they were offending you. . . .

Im definitely not criticizing you for your response. I have encountered this same sort of thing so many times—and Im usually initially so shocked that someone would actually say something that ridiculous out loud and in public—–that Im speechless. And by the time my emotions catch up with me, the person has walked away and the moment is lost.

I’m so glad that Candace shared her perspective, because she raises a number of interesting points and makes me realize that I have more to say about these types of experiences, which I wrote about briefly in a previous post about “microagressions,” a term for offhand comments that bring your race and ethnicity to the forefront of a social interaction.

I want to say first that I totally agree with Candace: most of the time–really, like 99.9% of the time–nothing good results from a random person’s inquiry into my ethnicity. They ask the question, I tell them that I’m Mexican, and then their response falls within a range from the benign-but-stupid to the downright offensive. Here are some examples drawn from my real-world experience:

Benign-but-stupid replies:

  • “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico!” [What does my being Chicana have to do with your travel wishes?]
  • “I should learn Spanish.” [What is the connection between my ethnicity and your fluency in Spanish?]
  • “You’re Mexican? You probably saw that movie The Motorcyle Diaries. Well, can you explain to me why Che Guevara became a communist?” [I never knew Che and I don't research his life, so your guess is as good as mine.]

Moderately insulting:

  • “Yeah, I can hear it in your voice now.”
  • “You speak English so well!”
  • “How long have you been in the US?”

Downright offensive:

  • “My dad likes to hire Mexicans because they’re as loyal as dogs.”
  • “You’ll probably like this joke I heard: ‘Mexicans are proof that the Indians f*cked buffalo.’ Isn’t that hilarious?”

Yes folks, I’ve heard all these responses and more, which is why a sense of dread comes over me as soon as I hear what Chicana writer Michele Serros calls “The Question.”

And this leads me to a second point that Candace raises: Even though I always aim to have a snappy and/or educational comeback (or in case of the most offensive comments, a razor hidden in my hair like a serious chola), most of the time I’m so taken aback by the stupid responses in the first place that I can’t think of any memorable rejoinders. Most of these interactions leave me feeling stunned, wondering, “Did that really just happen?” and “Did I hear that right?”

That’s the insidious nature and greatest danger of microagressions: Over time, they wear you down and make you question your sanity. There you are, just a person of color living your life like anyone else. You’re at the grocery store, the bookstore, sitting in your cubicle at work. Your ethnicity and race are not even on your mind. Then WHAM! There’s a random person reminding you that for them, you are first and foremost just a skin color and a walking stereotype. Thanks.

Reader Candace went on to share some advice she once heard from the CEO of a company she worked for. This woman said,

[I]t doesn’t matter where you are in this world—at work, buying groceries, at the park–what ever. When someone disrespects you to your face, possibly insults you—it doesn’t matter if they’re joking or communicating it in a joking manor—you owe it to yourself and those who might come after you if you don’t speak up——to say something. Call’em out!! say, ‘you know what so-and-so…that really hurt my feelings. Why would you say that? What do you mean? Are you trying to offend me?’

These words are an excellent reminder: We do have the right to call someone out and, probably even more effective than the wittiest of retorts, straightforwardly ask them, “Why did you say that?” Turn the tables and force them to explain themselves (which they probably won’t able to do very thoughtfully). Taking this approach has the potential to turn an instance of microagression into what’s called in academic circles a “teachable moment,” where you  have the opportunity to drop some knowledge on the folks who need it the most.

I like this idea but what holds me back a lot of the time is suspecting that I’d be wasting my time. I only have so much energy to expend in my day. Do I want to spend more time with these ignorant people, trying to reason with them or get them to understand my point of view? It just seems like the burden is forever on us to do the teaching and explaining, and it’s tiresome. Sometimes I feel quite cynical about how much impact my explanations will ever have on them. I guess, like anything else in this world, it all depends on who you’re dealing with and the particular instance/context. But all around, it sucks and again, it gets this Chicana’s jalapeño blood boiling!

What are your thoughts? How have you chosen to respond to unexpected and ignorant comments? What other ways are there to deal with microagressions? I’d love to hear what you have to say, so please leave a reply!

My jalapeño blood

A few weeks ago, I was at the grocery store buying some jalapeños to make a batch of guacamole. An older white woman watched as I picked several peppers and placed them in a produce bag. “You better be careful with those!” she cheerfully warned.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I smiled, tossing the jalapeños into my cart. “I can handle them. They’re not too hot for me.”

“Well that’s because you’ve got jalapeño blood!” she replied before ambling away.

I stood there for a minute, taken aback at the notion of jalapeño blood. I was unsure of what to make of this comment. Was she a kindly old lady trying to make a silly joke? Or was she making some sort of reference to my skin color and/or ethnicity? I found myself asking, “Is ‘having jalapeño blood’ another way of saying ‘Mexican’?”

It may sound silly to write the question out this way (lord knows it feels ridiculous just typing it), but these are the sort of innocuous interactions that are hard to interpret when you’re a person of color (and Mexican American, in this particular case). If I were to tell my sister this story, I know she’d roll her eyes and tell me that I’m too sensitive, I read too  much into these things. She often thinks I’m too concerned about race…but as I explained in a previous post, I can’t help but be that way, because it’s part of my job.

In my experience, it’s not only what is said that matters, but also who says it. A few weeks ago, I was explaining to my boyfriend–who as an Indian immigrant sometimes has a very different understanding of these issues than I do–when someone asks about my ethnic background, I can’t help but take the inquirer’s own race/ethnicity into account. (And I’m talking about strangers or mere acquaintances here; with friends, it’s a different story because I know more about them.) For example, if another person of color asks, “What are you?” I usually don’t hesitate to say that I’m Mexican or Latina. However, when a white person asks, my spidey sense kicks in and I get suspicious. “Why are they asking me this question? And what might they say in response?” I have had too many encounters that end on a sour note because something rather ignorant emerges from their lips after I reveal my ethnicity.

My reticence especially comes through then their curiosity is phrased as, “Where are you from?” to which I immediately reply with the name of my Midwestern town. Usually they continue to repeat the question: “No, I mean, where are you from?” because they can’t seem to understand that (a) yes, I’m from the US; and (b) there is a difference between nationality/where you are born and ethnicity or race. (I’m far from the first to write about this frustrating phenomenon: Check out Michele Serros’ How to Be a Chicana Role Model or this post I discovered at Latin@ Pop.) My sister, of all people, had the best response I’ve ever heard to this line of questioning: after several thwarted attempts to get her to reveal her ethnicity, a white dude asked in desperation, “What do you have in you?” She told him, “A super-absorbent tampon.” And that sure shut him up!

When I first shared all this with my boyfriend, he played devil’s advocate and asked whether, in my own treating people differently based on their race, wasn’t I being racist myself? I don’t think I am, though. First, I don’t think that acknowledging the existence of different races is in itself a racist act. And second, as a woman of color, I don’t really have enough power over anyone else to impact their lives or limit their opportunities on the basis of race. What I mean is, is the inquirer’s white privilege damaged in any way just because I give them a hard time in finding out my ethnicity? No. They will go on to enjoy the perks of whiteness whether they know I’m Mexican or not.

So back to the grocery store lady. She could be right: maybe I do have jalapeño blood because I do tend to get awfully feisty around these issues. But it’s only because I’ve had 30+ years of dealing with people like her. On some days, it’s enough to make a Chicana want to become a real-life Mexican Spitfire. In fact, I’m signing off to begin practicing my Lupe Velez impersonation…. (Check out my favorite scene at 1:40.)

Political bourgieness

I was happy to come across this quote today by the one and only Audre Lorde. When I was in graduate school, a friend and I developed a theory of what we called “political bourgieness.” The main idea is that doing things like getting a pedicure, shopping at high-end retail stores, going wine tasting, etc. constitute political acts for us as women of color, for a number of reasons. First, such activities are political in that we might be the only minorities other people encounter in those environments; by being visible and present in these spaces, then, we are providing a representation of being Chicana that contrasts with the mainstream. Also, we come from families that struggled financially for many years; our grandmother and mothers would have loved to have such leisure and privilege, so we must enjoy it on their behalf!

Of course, we talked about this “theory” as a kind of joke. One humorless anthropologist friend who overheard us discussing political bourgieness became annoyed and huffed, “Oh yeah, we have that in Columbia–it’s called being middle class!” I take issue with such simplistic thinking. I refuse to romanticize poverty or the day-to-day struggles of the working class. And I refuse to feel guilty that by pursuing my education and now being in a career that comes with many privileges that I’ve somehow “sold out” or am no longer political. As far as I’m concerned, in my role as a professor, I teach young minds about their history and culture, and do everything I can to encourage them to think for themselves and ask critical questions about our society…and thats one of the most political things out there, especially in today’s increasingly anti-immigrant environment. So I’m doing a lot for our Chican@ community and I deserve a $10 lemon drop martini and then some.

I have colleagues who, uncomfortable with their privileged class status, will do things like refuse to shop at Whole Foods. Really? Does buying organic produce mean that you are a less “authentic” Chican@? I don’t think so. Or I think of my graduate students, who get riled up when we read Elva Treviño Hart’s memoir, Barefoot Heart, who writes about growing up in a poor migrant worker family. Hart went on to earn degrees from Stanford and was an exec at IBM for many years, doing extremely well for herself financially; she donates the proceeds from her memoir to migrant education. Nevertheless, my students criticize her choice to go corporate and insist, “She should have returned to her community!” In moments like that, I find it hard to not roll my eyes. Are Chican@s never supposed to make any money? Don’t we need leaders like her at every level, across careers? And who are we to judge someone else’s choices, anyway?

I’m starting to just rant here. My point is this: I understand the critique that some may lobby towards political bourgieness. Is my spending $400 on a fabulous cut & color at my favorite salon going to do anything to change “the system” or strike a chord of fear in The Man? No. What it will do, though, is enable me to unwind, love myself a little more and then return to my own political arena–the classroom–refreshed and ready to educate more young minds. And given time, those minds are going to change the world.

Now who’s ready for happy hour?

Yarning (and yearning) for Grandma

Hello world! The Daily Chicana is back after a short break due to a minor illness, followed by having to host some out-of-town guests. I’ve missed posting here and am ready to get back to writing!

Today I want to reflect on language and culture, and I’m going to do this by way of a family story. About a month ago, when I started this blog, my mom was back in the town where I grew up in order to help my grandma move into a nursing home. It was an emotional time all around, especially since my mom took on the additional task of sorting through and packing up my grandma’s entire apartment, which was filled with all manner of bric-a-brac collected over the twenty years Grandma had lived there.

One of the things my grandma is known best for is her beautiful crochet work. She can crank out everything from small, intricate lace doilies to large, cozy blankets to snuggle under while watching a movie. In fact, she had just started  one of these larger creations when she had the nasty fall that led her to be hospitalized and now have to be moved into the nursing home. Knowing that I’m the only one in the family besides my grandma who knows anything about the fiber arts, my mom asked if I wanted the remaining materials. “I think it would be nice for you to finish it,” she explained. “This way it’s something special that you and Grandma worked on together.” I loved the idea and asked her to please send me the yarn.

In the ensuing weeks, I’d forgotten all about this project until the day I found a package on my doorstep. Inside the box were two Rubbermaid containers filled with Grandma’s crocheted squares and the rest of the yarn for the blanket (pictured above). I lifted off the lid from the first container, and a faint trace of Grandma’s perfume wafted up to my nose. I suddenly found myself choked up. It finally hit me: We have such little time  left with Grandma. I mean, I knew intellectually how frail she has become, but because I live so far and don’t get to see her more than once a year, I obviously wasn’t experiencing her decline first-hand. Holding her yarn in my hands and being reminded of her smell made it all so real for me. For a long time, I sat with the yarn, sniffling and thinking about her.

I was also wondering how on earth I’m going to complete the blanket. From what my mom described, Grandma had completed most of the squares and I just had to sew them together. I figured that, as a knitter, I’d be able to handle it. In reality, though, there is only about two feet of completed material, consisting of (a) little squares; (b) squares that have been woven into rectangles; and (c) large multicolored triangles. I have no idea how it’s all supposed to fit together or what the color scheme is. It’s a much bigger task than I realized, as I don’t know what Grandma had envisioned.

In any case, a few days ago I was on the phone with my sister, telling her the story of how emotional I felt when I saw and smelled the yarn. “Grandma’s not gonna be around much longer,” I sadly observed.

“I know,” she said. “I feel weird, though, because I don’t feel emotional about it. I mean, I love Grandma and I don’t want her to be in pain or to have to suffer, but I don’t feel sad like I’m supposed to. I kinda don’t feel anything about it. Is that weird?”

“No, it’s not weird,” I assured her. My sister and I have both lived far apart from our extended family for all of our adult lives and in the intervening years have become very emotionally distanced from them and any family dramas that come up.

She went on to explain, “I think it’s because I don’t really have a relationship with Grandma independent of Mom. Grandma never learned English, and I don’t know Spanish, so Mom always had to be there to translate. I couldn’t ever communicate with Grandma on my own or open up to her without Mom around. And now Grandma and I don’t really know each other.”

Before I could comment on her insight, she continued on to a surprising rant. “And you know, Grandma came here when she was in her thirties. You’d think that she would have made an effort to learn English sometime in the last sixty years! She even became a citizen, but she speaks so little English! And now she’s in the nursing home and scared a lot of the time because she doesn’t understand what the doctors and nurses are saying. But it’s her own fault. I mean, if I ever had to live in another country for some reason, I would do everything I could to learn the language there. Like, if I ever had to live in Mexico, god forbid–”

My sister didn’t get much further than that because right then I burst out laughing so hard that I had tears coming out of my eyes. “What?!” she kept giggling defensively, and when I calmed down enough to talk, I explained, “You are so dramatic! ‘God forbid’ you ever have to live in Mexico? I mean, god forbid there’s a nuclear bomb or an apocalypse. You do realize that there are worse things than having to live in Mexico?”

“Not for me,” she huffed. “That’s how much I hate it!”

We went on to talk about other things, but after we hung up, I found myself thinking about Grandma, the yarn, language and our cultural heritage. I explained last week about the vastly different connection my sister and I feel towards and in how we embody Chican@ culture (and if you thought in that post I was exaggerating about how much she despises Mexico, now you know I’m not making it up).

My sister has long yearned for a stronger relationship with Grandma, but she couldn’t ever speak directly to her because of the language barrier. Now, I’m certainly not one of those people who argues that one must speak Spanish to be a “true” Chican@, but it sure does help to know the language, because speaking Spanish is one way to keep those cultural ties strong. It amazes me that I’m the only one of eleven grandchildren on that side of the family who bothered to learn it (similarly, on my dad’s side, only six of thirty-two grandkids speak Spanish).

For me, working on this crocheted blanket acts as a metaphor for keeping up Mexican culture. My Grandma began the project based on her own knowledge and envisioning a particular pattern. Now I’m continuing that work. And even though I might change it up by knitting instead of crocheting and I’ll certainly end up with a different pattern than what Grandma may have intended, it’s still a colorful blanket created by women from different generations. There’s no right or wrong way to proceed; it will just unfold and change over time, just as Mexican American culture develops in this country. I’m just proud to keep up a tradition that my lovely grandmother started.