by Jorge Ramos
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Once every year my dad would come home with a new car. There might not be money to repair the leak in the roof or pay for tuition, but there was enough for the latest model of his favorite car. Here’s how the ritual took place: My father would pull up, honking the horn, and my siblings and I would run out from our rooms so that he could give us a ride around the block. If he was in the mood, he would take us out on the beltway, which we called “the rise” and which felt almost like a roller coaster. If we were lucky, the neighbors would be out and see Dad’s new car, because we all wanted to show it off. My father hated distracting sounds. Anytime we dropped something on the floor, his head would whip around so he could register his displeasure with us. He preferred to crank up the music of his favorite orchestras on the car radio and would use one hand (sometimes even two!) to conduct his imaginary ensemble of musicians. The car also served as the confessional. My brothers and I all went there, in turn, to have the sex talk with our dad. A new car was the highest luxury to which the Ramos family could aspire. That, and one meal a year at a fine restaurant. I ordered shrimp every time. I loved them. But they were also the most expensive item on the menu. My dad was always the last to order. I always suspected that he waited in order to do a quick mental calculation of what the family had ordered, so that he could order something cheaper if necessary to make sure he had enough to pay for the meal.
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Saturdays and Sundays were for soccer, chicharrones, and family. “Go say hello to your grandpa,” my mom would say, and five pairs of tennis shoes would scurry up the stairs to surprise Abuelito Miguel standing in the bathroom or maybe even still in bed, reading one of his voluminous history books. He was my mom’s dad, and he was a delight. He was born in 1900 and would often look back in amazement at how he grew up with so little. He would go on to witness the advent of electricity, trains, and airplanes. He was a generous man, grateful for life, and always in good spirits. When we went to his house, he would give the kids some rompope, a drink similar to eggnog, including alcohol, which made us feel very grown-up…and, I suppose, in rather high spirits. While the adults were enjoying their aperitifs in the living room, the kids would go upstairs to watch television, which was in black and white, of course, and often the reception was so bad that we had to stand next to the unit and act as an antenna in order to make out the picture. My grandpa would give us some chicharrones as a snack, and by dinnertime we were no longer hungry. He lived there with his sisters, Elsa, Martha, and Raquel Avalos. There were always people and music at Abuelito Miguel’s house, and it was always fun to spend New Year’s Eve there. The small yard was like a county fair: while we were playing soccer, my aunt Rocío was turning cartwheels, skirt and all, while the rest of the family was drinking tequila or Bloody Marys. Then we broke out the piñatas. The sudden sound of a stick breaking through the casing, and all that candy falling to the ground, is the closest thing there is to instant happiness. And we would dive for that candy more like piranhas than kids, devouring everything in our path. On the other hand, at the home of Abuelito Gilberto, my father’s father, everything was serious and boring. After the children ate, they had to go outside so that the adults could eat in peace. After the meal, my grandfather would go upstairs to take his nap, and it was there in his room that we would go to say good night. He gave us candies—one apiece—along with el domingo, a few coins we could use to spend at the school store. When my grandfather Gilberto died, my grandmother Raquel Ramos inherited his money…or so I thought. In one of my many attempts to escape Mexico, I had been accepted into the London School of Economics and Political Science. It would be a great opportunity. So I went out to eat with her, and when it was time for dessert, I asked her for the $8,000 I would need in order to attend college in England for the year. I don’t have the money, she said to me without even batting an eye. I wanted to tell her that Abuelito Gilberto would have helped me, and I wanted to ask her where all the money from the sale of his ranch had gone (he owned a ranch in the northern state of Coahuila, which I naively assumed also belonged to his children and grandchildren, though it never did). But it was all to no avail. That day, when she refused to give me the money to study abroad, I swore that finances would never again be an obstacle to achieving my dreams. I promised myself that this would never again happen to me or to those I love the most. And that’s how it’s been ever since. I wasn’t able to study in London, but the events of that day changed my life and the lives of many other people.
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I lived in a white, two-story house with what I believe was a red roof. You see, there are some things that I can no longer remember. It had a tall metal gate and a door that no one ever used. The garage was open and designed for two cars, though somehow we managed to park four. I slept in one of the upstairs rooms with Alejandro; Eduardo and Gerardo were in an adjoining room; and on the other side was my sister, Lourdes. The five of us shared a single bathroom. My parents slept in the larger room opposite mine, and next to them was the television room. It was there that I watched episodes of Chabelo, Topo Gigio, The Munsters, and—when I was allowed to stay up late—the series Combat!, which aired at ten o’clock. Downstairs was the living room (which we weren’t allowed to enter, because it was “just for guests”), the kitchen, with a long metal grill for preparing the meals, a dining room, and a yard with grass and a handrail that we used as a goal while pretending to be Enrique Borja, the star striker for the Mexican national soccer team. There was no greater honor on earth than being called Borjita Ramos. He was a born goal scorer, and years later, when I had the privilege of getting to know him, he listened to me tell this ridiculous story from my youth without laughing right in front of me. The kitchen was like a hive. We went in to grab something from the refrigerator before running back out to play. It was there that I learned how to make butter-and-sugar sandwiches on white bread. I now realize that was my comfort food, and even today, when I’m feeling anxious or need something to take the edge off my hunger, I fix one for myself. And I usually pair it with a glass of cold chocolate milk, which is what my mother used to give me, “because children shouldn’t drink coffee.” To this day, I still don’t drink coffee. The only danger was the pressure cooker my mom used to cook beans—which she cleaned one by one to make sure there were no pebbles among them—had the bad habit of exploding and leaving rather large splatters on the ceiling. And no, neither those stains nor the beans embedded in the walls were ever repaired by Ramos the architect. What he did do was request that a phone line be installed, a process that took years. Once the request was approved, we had to wait for the phone company to construct a few miles of landlines so that the phone could be physically connected to our house, which was located on the outskirts of Mexico City. Imagine a single phone line for seven people! There was no privacy whatsoever. There were three or four jacks spread throughout the house, and whenever the phone rang, everyone jumped to answer it. If someone was on a call, it was common to hear someone else pick up a receiver in another room to either listen in on the conversation or make strange noises so that the other person would be pressured into hanging up fast. I still remember the number, but I won’t include it here because somehow it is still connected to the same house I grew up in, and I wouldn’t want to bother the current tenants. There were never any parties in that house; birthdays and other important moments went uncelebrated. Recently I asked my mom why this was, and her reply was weighted with realism: “There was never any money, Jorgito.” Exactly. Parties cost money, and when you have five children, the number of birthdays, holidays, and all other sorts of celebrations can start to add up. So the alternative was not to celebrate. Do nothing at all. Almost. The only party we ever hosted at home was when I graduated from college. My primary concern (other than getting a few bottles of wine) was that my friends not notice the huge leak right in the center of the living room ceiling, which Ramos the architect never saw
fit to repair. The house itself was halfway down the street, and our next-door neighbors were the Sotres. They had four girls who were about the same ages as the four Ramos brothers. There were no romantic interests between us, but we spied on them through the windows, as I assume they did on us. The Aceves—Alejandro, Sergio, and Silvia—lived two houses down, and there was no greater weekend joy than to be invited over to swim in their backyard pool. It was the only thing like it on the block, and a real luxury. Sassa and Piff were almost right across the street from us; they spoke French with their mother (whom we affectionately called Oui Mama), and the school they attended let them grow their hair out long. Sassa was the first member of the group to start smoking cigarettes. The Hallivis lived across the intersection. Beto was the best-looking guy on the street, but it was his older brother, Luciano, who was the most popular because he was the first to get his own car. We would spend the afternoons sitting in his Volkswagen listening to cassette tapes. The Mier y Terán family almost never left their house, and the only thing we knew about them was that they went to some Opus Dei camps. I went once, and the only good thing about it was the freshly baked bread. I never went back again. The Prietos and the Montaño sisters completed the group. We popped in and out of all the houses on the block as if they were our own, and all the parents looked after us as if we were their own children. Go ask your aunt Irma if she has any sugar, someone would say. Where are your brothers? At Piff’s house, racing toy cars. Well, we’re getting ready to eat. I’m okay, I already had a sandwich at the Aceves’ house. There was an unspoken understanding among the inhabitants of the twenty-odd houses on that street that we were all part of a community. And that kind of magical protection extended well beyond the boundaries of the neighborhood. My mom used to send us to buy freshly made bread and tortillas at La Abeja, a bakery and shop that was a quick ten-minute walk from home. Nothing ever happened to us.
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I learned the importance of sharing in that house. After all, you don’t have much of a choice when you have a sister and three younger brothers. I learned you can always find a place to play, even if it’s in the street. I learned to appreciate my friends and others close to me, because nobody chooses where to be born or where to grow up. I learned to be a rebel and a feminist from the excellent example set by my mother. I learned to improve as I grow, thanks to my father’s genuinely caring and affectionate change in his behavior. I learned not to give up and to defend myself, whether it was from cruel priests in high school or the bullies on the playground. I learned to be self-sufficient and to not depend on anyone else. I learned not to expect anything from either my government or my grandmother. And I learned to rely not on the promises of heaven, but on personal dedication and the love and solidarity of others.
In other words, the most important things in life I learned in that house.
On Amphibians and Translators
Amphibious.
That’s what I am.
And there are lots of us.
My friend the author Sandra Cisneros refers to herself as an amphibian because she lives in two different worlds and can serve as a bridge between Mexico and the United States. But at the age of fifty-seven, Sandra packed up her things, crossed the border—heading south—and settled back down in San Miguel de Allende, in the state of Guanajuato, Mexico. “I feel more at home, happier, and more connected to my community,” she explained to me. “I feel very safe there. The neighbors are looking out for you. Back in the United States, I was afraid that I would die and my dogs would eat me, that nobody would find me until days later. That would be impossible in Mexico. Someone is always knocking on my door. Gas? Water? Doñita?”
The ideas of home and relocation have marked both Sandra’s life and her books. She was born in Chicago and studied at the University of Iowa before going to teach in San Antonio. But in the United States, she told me, “I always felt like a foreigner.” And ironically enough, this helped her become the writer she is today.
“I found my voice the moment I realized I was different,” she wrote in her book A House of My Own. “I didn’t want to sound like my classmates; I didn’t want to keep imitating the writers I’d been reading. Their voices were right for them but not for me.” This discovery gave birth to Esperanza, the protagonist of her famous novel The House on Mango Street.
In a lovely letter in which she paraphrased the poet David Whyte, Sandra wrote to me that “home is where you feel you belong.” And so she went to live in Mexico.
I am also an amphibian, and I also feel like a foreigner in the United States. But unlike Sandra, I have decided to stay where I am. I think I’ve grown accustomed to the uncomfortable sense of being out of place, of feeling that there are those who don’t want me here. And there are things that tie me to this nation—my children, my personal relationships, my job, and my work with other immigrants—that are much more important than the all-too-common shots taken by die-hard social media instigators.
“Amphibian” is the perfect word to describe my life in the United States. It comes from the Greek amphi, meaning “two” or “both,” and bios, meaning “life.” An amphibian is someone who inhabits two environments, combining two lives. The word itself generally applies to either animals or military operations, but it comes in handy when talking about immigrants.
Being an immigrant means living in two places at the same time, sometimes interchangeably or even simultaneously. We come and go between the United States and Latin America, both literally and figuratively. There are times when Mexicans living in the United States spend entire days thinking about what’s going on in Mexico, and at other times it doesn’t even cross their minds.
Some people in Mexico refer to me as an American, whereas here I am considered Mexican. For those of us with dual passports, the border is simply a symbol. It doesn’t really exist. We cross it heading north, we cross it heading south, and nobody stops us. We come from both sides of it.
It is a great privilege and a true honor to be part of a country. It’s something I take quite seriously. But the fact is that I can instantly decide to be either Mexican or American. When I arrive at the Mexico City International Airport, I can choose the line that says “Foreigners” or the one for “Mexicans.” And this decision doesn’t require any deep philosophical analysis or carry any inherent feelings of guilt. In general, I travel with both of my passports, and I choose the line that’s shorter. That’s what determines which country I belong to at that particular moment. The official stamp on my passport shows what I chose to be on that day, but everything can change with my next visit.
It may seem strange that I can vote in two different countries, but for me it’s a legal right that I worked hard to earn. I have the right to vote in the country that adopted me, the country where my children were born, where I have spent over half my life, and where I pay taxes. But I also have the right to vote in the country where I was born, where I grew up, where my family still resides and receives a portion of the remittances I send. Because of my profession and my personal interests, I pay very close attention to the political climate in both Mexico and the United States, and when elections are held, I know that the results will have very real consequences on my life and the lives of those around me.
I am now of two nations. That’s the reality.
My accent—chilango in Spanish and Mexicanized in English—is like one of those leather suitcases that gets scratched by everything it touches, that changes over time and conforms itself to carry whatever is inside it. There are days when I can speak English with no major stumbling blocks, and there are others where I still sound like a newcomer. And no matter how much I study and practice, I will never feel as though I’ve mastered English to the degree that I’ve mastered Spanish. I sound exactly like what I am: a cluster of flowing currents and voices that collide, mix, and oppose one another.
It’s impossible to be just one thing at a time.
I am many.
I
mmigrants understand that they are many things at once. We don’t have a solid, immutable identity. Over the span of a single day, I can feel Latino, Mexican, American, foreigner, and newcomer. Other times the question doesn’t even come up. The fact is that we don’t wake up every morning and take a mental survey to identify what we are. This happens only when someone else brings it up or when we start scratching away at our own surface. Our sense of self is the product of multiple moving parts that operate within us and react with our surroundings. It is an unfinished portrait of who we are at one specific moment.