Latin Blood

They say Latin blood is strong. I believe it, as only 25% of the blood running through my veins comes from our beloved neighbor to the south, but it is the heritage that I feel mostly strongly connected too. I barely know any of my Mexican relatives, my great-grandmother passed away before I was born, and my grandfather I hardly knew, but something about Mexico has always dominated. My Mexican insurgent gene's managed to conquer my German DNA, despite the odds not being in their favor. I am in fact almost 50% German. It hardly counts, though, as almost every American is made from a mostly-German base, the way Kool-Aid is mostly made from water. The Mexican in me comes from my father's side, and in the spirit of true-Mexican machismo, it beat the 25% of my Italian genes coming from my mother's side into passive submission many years ago. Although I love my large, loving, cooking, and laughing Italian family, and have visited Italy several times, I never ended up on a Tuscan lakeside with a glass of Chianti and George Clooney. Instead I find myself drinking watery beer and listening to the sing-song announcement for Oaxacan-style tamales being sold outside my rented apartment in Mexico City. I have always had an almost unhealthy obsession with everything Latin, which grew stronger as I aged and moved further and further South. Being raised in Northern California, at 18 I moved to Orange County to enjoy the beach. Once I graduated college I moved again to San Diego, where I spent many a weekends wandering the alleyways and breathing in the heavenly scents of Tijuana. And almost 10 months ago, I boarded a one-way flight to Mexico City, with nothing but a backpack, an address to a hostel, and a strong inclination that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. With no contacts, job, friends, or family, I enrolled in a 6-week Spanish course and began tackling my first (and most obvious) obstacle: Spanish. I am convinced that it takes a deep love to be able to learn a language. There is no other force strong enough to keep you committed. It is definitely the hardest thing I have every tackled, which is a validated statement since I have graduated college with a degree in accounting and conquered all four parts of my CPA exam. Being able to express not just words and phrases, but yourself, in another tongue is exhausting and, at times, impossible. It requires every muscle in your brain and mouth working in complete harmony and at flawless speed. It requires memorization, commitment, hours of practice and most of all, cultural humility. But what euphoria when even the simplest phrase comes out in perfect synchronization! Or when you understand exactly what someone is saying to you for the first time, even if it’s just “hello, how are you?” You feel on top of the world! Nothing could be too hard for you! Ph.d? Why not? The bar exam? Piece of cake! Why? Because I just ordered dinner in Spanish! I can take care of myself in another language! What can get more intelligent than that! It isn’t until the waiter then asks you what you want to drink and you stare at him in blank confusion that you are brought back down to reality and public shame and are inspired to study more.

Something about that language is just intoxicating. Every word I hear hypnotizes me, and every word I say always sends butterflies up my stomach as if I just developed a crush on whoever is speaking. Which, the majority of the time, is usually the case. There just isn’t anything quite like a man who speaks Spanish. Even if he’s as old as your grandfather, he’ll be just as willing and eager to talk with you, woe you, impregnate you, sing to you, and write you love letters. Most of them do it to 2 or 3 girls at once, that’s how much they love it. Though I have never agreed with unfaithfulness that seems inevitable in a Hispanic romance, I have always been quite impressed with their stamina and multitasking skills. And with a love of something, comes much tolerance. Not just for the men and their infidelities, but the traffic which never seems to clear, the butterfinger mechanics that work below me, constantly dropping some type of hammer or exhaust pipe, my noisy landlord who asks me to rearrange furniture, and even when the tamale man gives me a tamale with chicken after I ask for vegetarian. Nothing seems to bother me, it has the opposite effect infact. Instead I just smile, shake my head and think, "Oh Mexico, como te amo."