Language and the Soweto Uprising

16 Jun 2013 Leave a comment

by signsofsomething in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

On June 16, 1976, nearly 20,000 high school students protested the fact that they weren’t allowed to be taught in their native language. This happened in South Africa, when Afrikaans was the language of power, and the other languages, well they just needed to go.

Language is one of our most unifying as well as divisive gifts. Even now, more than thirty years later, in this country, language is still unifying and divisive. Whether it is people yelling “Speak English!” or as I usually hear… “Speak American!” or whether the local tribes offer classes for young folks to learn their ancestral language, our ability to communicate is vital, and our connection to those who we can communicate with is even more important than our connection to those who we can worship with. In all of the situations where tribal or native or indigenous peoples have been forced to give up their native languages and adopt the language of their oppressors, the end result has never been good.

This theft of culture, of identity, is more defining and more detrimental than the adaptation of clothing and lifestyle.

Why?

Because people want to be heard…we each want a voice, to be understood, to communicate our needs and our desires, we want to know that we have a connection to not only those from the same ‘tribe’ but also to our ancestors.

Was that protest worth it? I wasn’t there. I lost nobody. In fact, I was only eight years old…but I’d say so. I’d say that nobody…and yes, I do mean nobody, has the right to steal another person’s culture…to force out a language, to kill it.

Linguists believe that there are nearly 7,000 languages currently spoken around the world…they also believe that up to 90% of those languages will be extinct before the year 2100. Of course since I can’t grasp math for the life of me, I have no idea exactly what number that is, but that’s a goddamn lot of languages to disappear, a lot of cultures that will be missing a huge portion of their individuality. It’s a lot of grandchildren who will no longer be able to read the love letters of their grandmothers, it is too many nephews and nieces that will never understand the quirks and expressions that their uncles use. It is an ungodly amount of descendents that will never hear the language of their ancestors, never speak the language of those who came before.

I think that’s sad.

So today, in honor of those children who stepped out, walked toward what they knew could be their deaths, and in honor of those who died for the right to be educated in their native tongue, to have the right to have a cultural separation from the destroyers of their way of life, just remember, the next time you get pissed that you have to push number 1 for English, that you wouldn’t want to be forced to give up your language either…

Gone Blonde

15 Jun 2013 Leave a comment

by signsofsomething in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

It’s true, my friend the hairdresser came over last night and did this fabulous thing to my hair…it’s sort of a blend of blonde, honey, copper and my natural dark brown. It’s terrific because it has this 1970’s California girl look, and she styled it similar to Farrah Fawcett’s Charlie’s Angels days.

Okay so it’s not blonde like blonde. I think that we’d all agree that most olive complected Mexicans should not be blonde, there’s an air to that look that is just terribly reminiscent of the chola look, which in my less than humble opinion is not a great look for my sisters of la raza.

The roommate loves it. He went on and on about how good it looks, and I drilled him to make sure that he wasn’t just being flattering so that I would make him strawberry shortcake for dessert. He wasn’t. Of course this does not negate my nervousness at anyone seeing me…not because I don’t love what she did to my hair, I do…but because the last thing I want is someone thinking that I’m trying to look less ethnic.

Then I start to think that I’m being a dope, after all, everyone who knows me knows that I love changing my look from day to day but remain proudly Latina…they couldn’t possibly think that I have an aversion to being recognizably Latina.

Why do we have such stringent ideas about appearance? Even within ethnic groups, there is a prejudice that is based entirely on physical appearance…if someone is mixed Afro-Hispanic, then they’re considered too dark, if someone is a blonde, blue-eyed Hispanic, then they’re considered less Latina…is our physical appearance that important that even our own identity is questioned?

Honestly it doesn’t make sense to me, that I would be filled with trepidation, not that people won’t find the new hair color attractive, but that I won’t be seen as Mexican. But then again, I already get the comments of “You don’t look Mexican!” and other comments which I can’t imagine saying to anyone else. Why? Well primarily because for many of us, that’s not a compliment. Our pride in our heritage, our familiarity with our culture is part of who we are as an identity and when that is questioned, it sort of pisses us off.

Even my own daughter doesn’t identify as being Latina…simply because she has red hair and green eyes (actually she’s platinum blonde right now). Her identity is so strongly rooted in what she sees in the mirror rather than anything else and for her mother, it’s fascinating. It isn’t as if she’s ashamed of her heritage, she isn’t. It’s not as if she isn’t comfortable with her culture, she is. It’s simply that even though her surname is still the same as mine, which is still the same as my father’s, a very obviously Hispanic name, she knows that when people look at her, they don’t see a Latina.

This used to piss me off…but now, I am just curious, why is it that we are so determined to base so much of our individual identity on something which, in this day and age, and because of the widespread blending of ethnic and racial bloodlines, really shouldn’t even play a part.

So I guess I will stop worrying about any negative responses to my summertime pseudo blonde and just put my big girl panties on and face the music. After I have a few more cups of coffee.

“Oh, But You Don’t Look…”

29 Jan 2013 6 Comments

by signsofsomething in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , ,

Throughout my adult life, I have heard, far too many times, “Oh but you don’t look…” Now the word look would be followed by words such as Mexican, grandmother, mother, African American, Irish, lesbian, minister, fortune teller, etc. Now…this of course should not really be an issue. People have their preconceptions of what one type may or may not look like. However, it’s said like a compliment, like I should be excited that they don’t recognize that aspect of me. So let’s for a moment take a look at these things which I do not look like.

Mexican: This is actually one that I receive often. This backhanded compliment is usually from someone whose knowledge of Mexican or Hispanic culture is limited to Taco Bell. The person most often is under the belief that Mexicans in all of our glory are only represented by the beautiful Indio features and coloring, whereas the truth is far simpler than that, since those of us who belong to the ethnic group know that we even lay claim to blond haired, blue eyed beauties and red headed macho macho men.

Grandmother and Mother: I have been told that I should feel flattered about this specific compliment since people are simply saying that I look young. Since I am proud of being a mother and a grandmother, as well as being proud of my age and the signs of my aging process, it usually ends up with me spending the day in a tiff, thinking of ways that I can look more like a grandmother, such as buying ridiculous t-shirts with the word grandmother scrawled across the chest. Does this mean that more people end up looking at my breasts? Sure, but I have less of a problem with that than I do with being told that I don’t look like a grandmother.

African American: Okay, I admit, as far as I know, I do not have any Black heritage. However, one day in Indianapolis, while waiting for a bus, a young man came up to me and asked me why I was wearing a head wrap when I’m not a sister. He went on to say that it was rude of me to wear a cultural representation that doesn’t belong to me. He of course did not say it as nicely as I just did, and I am rarely this quick thinking, but I responded by asking him what made him think that I was not in fact African American. I explained to him that he was mistaken in believing that his race was made up of only people of his own skin color, and by believing that, he contributes to the negativity by separating his own race into categories based on skin color or even shades of that color. I then gave him a lesson in the history of the greatness of his own race and that indeed there are those who are lighter as well as those who are darker and that he should be proud that his magnificent race does in fact have such an enormous range of appearance. I also pointed out that head wraps have been used by cultures all over the world and that it was arrogant of him to think that only his culture has utilized them as symbols of beauty, marital status, religious beliefs and even simply to protect against Mother Nature. He apologized, smiled, hugged me and walked away while the elderly woman next to me waited for him to leave before saying “I know that you aren’t black but that was great of you to explain that to him.”

Irish: This has been a difficult one for me, because I don’t identify on an average day as being Irish. This is certainly not because I have an issue with my maternal lineage, rather I am comfortable with what I look like when I see myself in a mirror. I did not inherit anything from my mother but her big feet and her freckles, so on the occasion when someone asks me what a specific tattoo says or means, and I tell them that it is the Irish word for prophetess, I am bombarded by statements that I don’t look Irish. Well, since I have dated four different culturally and genetically Irish guys and each of them have looked different from the next, I’m not sure what Irish looks like but I imagine that this too can run the range of appearance.

Lesbian: Okay, yet again, I am not a lesbian, although I have dated women. During these times, it has been difficult to get past the arguments of labels and categorization, some never being happy with my response of “I love who I love at points in my life. I don’t need a label maker to print out a specific title for who I am at each point.” Besides, this still makes me wonder…what exactly does a lesbian look like? I imagine the idea of a lesbian is the stunning butchy types, but then again, I have known some stunning butchy types of women who in fact have been as straight as boards.

So I guess I can stop with the examples right there, I’m sure that you catch my drift. After all, don’t we limit ourselves by assuming that everyone of a certain community will appear similar to everyone else within that community? Don’t we shame ourselves by feeding into presumptive prejudices? Why does the comment or response need to be “You don’t look like, sound like, eat like, dance like…” Why is that even a thought in our heads? Perhaps we don’t understand the insult that comes along with that statement. We are, in essence, saying to the person that they don’t belong in the community to which they identify with. We are telling them that they are not enough to belong, a mutation of what the community is known for. We are placing them into a state of limbo, a place in between, a place of being an outcast. We are saying that they aren’t good enough to be a part of the group which they have belonged.

These are not compliments. They may be said with good intentions, but like many good intentions, they can pave the road to Hell. It is a Hell where they who feel shunned send themselves. These statements of “you don’t look…” create a line between the recipient of the words and their family, friends, religion, gender, sexuality, community, peers and so forth. From that moment on, especially when it is repeated from time to time, the recipient of those compliments questions themselves when looking at the other members of their circles. They can begin to ask themselves “Do I belong?”

That question leads to joining cults, gangs, and so forth…all in the quest to belong, to have a part of you that you know is connected to others.

However…if you’re feeling like you don’t belong, you can totally belong to my family. I’m just not doing your dirty laundry.

The Beauty, Splendor, the Wonder of my Hair

24 Jan 2013 114 Comments

by signsofsomething in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

I have noticed that within many families, long hair on the girls is a given. It’s a source of pride and a sign of beauty. There are pictures of me, a young girl with a heavy dark hair hanging down her back, miserable with the weight of it. I remember having to adjust how I sat down in school, so as to not sit on my own hair and give myself whiplash, a suffering which happened frequently.

When I was in the sixth grade, we were struggling financially, my father was away for work and my mother said that I could choose one big but inexpensive gift for my birthday. I told her that I wanted my hair cut. She panicked, this would not go over well with my father when he returned home, but she agreed, cutting inch after inch off of my hip length mane, until I was left with a blunt haircut which fell to below my shoulders. I loved it.

My father did not.

I kept that length throughout school, finally cutting it to a short boy-like cut when I was in my last year of high school. This short cut remained, small adaptations over the years, until I started to wear the more traditional Mexican clothing, consisting of primarily ankle length skirt and loose fitting, embroidered blouses. Then I began to grow my hair out. I became known for my intricate braids, unusual buns, even head wraps and scarves became accessories for my thick hair, but I kept it traditional and long.

As an adult, I didn’t have the problems with sitting on my hair or even brushing it as I had in my youth. In fact, my hair never has grown past my waist again. I have colored it, layered it, given myself bangs, twisted, teased and tortured it. My hair has been through hell and back…all by my own hands.

However, now I am trying to decide whether I should cut it. I miss the ease with which I can get ready when my hair is short. I miss the weightlessness. Then on certain occasions, when I have my hair up or under a hat, my father will say “DID YOU CUT YOUR HAIR?” and he sounds like an ogre about to attack an unsuspecting traveler, so I reassure him that I didn’t, and life goes on. I am not looking forward to the day that I say “yes” and have to hear a lecture on women having long hair and that it’s a sign of beauty and femininity and that I looked better with it long. I suppose that if I do decide to cut my hair, I could just avoid seeing my father in person for a little while.

But really, what’s the big deal? It’s just hair. It isn’t really a sign of anything other than how much you might spend on hair products or professional cuts and color. In reality, it’s nothing more than insulation and a sign that I’m a mammal. It shouldn’t be a big deal if it’s short, long, braided, wrapped up in a scarf, kinky, straight, blond or black. I am not going to lose my strength if it’s cut and I’m certainly not going to lose my femininity.
So why is there such an emphasis on it? Why are we so vested in what happens with our hair?

I remember going to a friend’s chemotherapy appointment with him many years ago and seeing a stunning woman sitting near us, a completely bald head and full makeup, along with the most gorgeous earrings I’ve ever seen. I suppose it should have been a shocking sight, to see a woman with a completely bald head, yet all I could think of was how powerful she looked, sitting there, not hiding her hair loss, but wearing it like it belonged, wearing the side effects of her illness and the treatment, as if she had nothing to be ashamed of. Without her hair, I could see her features on their own, without a frame of hair. She certainly didn’t need to express herself with feathered bangs, layers upon layers of highlights.

So who knows, maybe I’ll cut it, maybe I’ll wait. Either way, I guess I’m going to have to explain to my father that hair does not make the woman…the woman makes the hair.

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