Breathe
By Paulina Fernández
Since I left Mexico in 2016, I have accumulated millions of moments that have made me feel more alive than ever, but I have also opened my eyes to realities I never expected. Among them discrimination, labels and microaggressions for being Mexican, but above all for being different.
The first time I faced this was in my first stop, the United States, where I lived for a year and a half. The year 2016 in itself was already generating some noise due to the election of Donald Trump and of course there was no shortage of comments like "Ah you came to help your people build the wall between the United States and Mexico right?". The first time, while rolling my eyes, I responded that there was already a physical border between the two countries so the joke was on them because they were sold an old idea. Eventually, I decided not to waste my time every time someone told me to go back to my country, like a lady at the supermarket who after telling me that my shoes (made in Mexico) were beautiful, told me about things in the checkout line.
There were all kinds of comments, all kinds of attitudes, all kinds of tones, but I don't remember giving it that much importance at the time, it slipped my mind and I thought it was their problem not mine.
In 2018, I moved to Europe following my now husband. Europe in my head had the label "source of knowledge, culture and wisdom" and it may be, but the nationalistic feeling is very strong which in my opinion, has blinded many generations, who think there is no better place than their country or Europe, I don't know why they didn't get the memo that it's not a competition.
On my first day, in my first job in Belgium, all of us in the office went to lunch together and I sat next to a man who first said to me "I don't care what level of education the people who come to live here have, nor if they are good citizens or not, they should all go back to their country, it cannot be the level of immigrants living in this country", to which I replied "Hello, my name is Paulina and I am an immigrant". He looked at me with disdain and did not speak to me again during the entire meal.
In the following six years after this incident, in Belgium and now in Switzerland, and in countries I visited on vacation I met people who said wonderful things about Mexico, but also constant questions like "Do you have donkeys and horses in the yard of your house?", the drug cartel repertoire has not failed: "Ah Mexicana! What cartel do you come from?", "If I go to Mexico one day, can you tell your cousins and uncles from the drug cartels to be cool with us?"Uy, don't make her mad because she will talk to the Mexican bandits and they will bury you in a well", "How come in Mexico they work up to 12 hours a day, they are super lazy if they even take siesta?" or even those who wanted to "be on my side" told me "No but you don't look Mexican, you don't look like the others", "No but your English is very good" or, "but you are different because you studied, you have a career, you speak more than one language, not like the others".
These types of questions have become a daily occurrence, and I have not gotten used to them even though I have developed the bad habit of answering "haaaa yes, right?", while inside I cannot find the words or the voice to say enough, because although I have some allies, among them my husband, I am the only "bean in the rice", my voice is not heard over so much noise that even news outlets such as the BBC often report that something bad has happened in Mexico. How come nobody talks about Lorena Ochoa or Katya Echazarreta, about Enrique Olvera, about Karla Souza, about the more than 30 sites that occupy a place on the UNESCO World Heritage list, about its great writers, about Frida Kahlo as a painter, feminist and revolutionary and not as a "cool" print on T-shirts and blanket bags or about Frida our dog heroine and the moles and the other dogs that saved many in the earthquakes in Mexico and now help in the disaster in Turkey?
In these exercises of conscience, where I now know that these comments are called microaggressions and in a feeling of frustration to see that it keeps happening, as tempting as it is and as much as my story sounds like I am a victim of these forms, I discover that change does not happen by pointing and hating those who ask me if I am the cleaning lady who works in that apartment (where I live) or those who believe that an Englishman saved me from my country and brought me to Europe. I remember that in my country these labels were called "naco" or "chairo", "fresa" or "fifi", "prieto", "sangre azul", "mirrey", "popular", "rico", "pobre" (rich).
My theory is that if I learn to look in the mirror, share my story and speak my truth, the world around me will change, but the first change comes from me, change happens by raising my voice or in this case typing my voice.
The opinions expressed are the responsibility of the authors and are absolutely independent of the position and editorial line of Opinion 51.
More than 150 opinions from 100 columnists await you for less than one book a month. Subscribe to Opinion 51.
Comments ()