I’M A NON-HISPANIC Mexican. A white, Spanish-talking, Georgia-born, grits-eating Cracker, taco-loving Mexican married to a brown-skinned, (mostly) non-English-speaking Latina born in a town called Uruapan, which you likely cannot even pronounce correctly, but I can.
I’m an American lefty’s multicultural wet dream, more diverse than most anybody you know above the Rio Bravo. Ain’t dat something?
But I don’t demand respect or preferences or a front-row seat in any university classroom or boardroom or any sort of room whatsoever. I mind my own business and drink my cafecitos quietly.
I don’t support multiculturalism in spite of being one of its shining stars.
Ain’t dat something too?
I’m a honky Mexican, a member of a very elite group.
We fly no angry banners. We hold no meetings. We never take to the streets in a snit. We came into the country legally, and went through the process, jumped through the hoops and got the papers. Now we’re just danged happy to be here.
Looking around, I see universities, scholarships, trade schools, help-wanted ads in newspapers and in store windows, ease of starting a business, modern shopping malls, love of capitalism, great highways, a fine healthcare system, an improving economy, and a growing middle class.
It’s enough to make a honky Mexican grin into his plate of beans while he’s dreaming of grits and butter.