As editor-in-chief, I figured that I should tell you my story about why I wanted to start Mi Estilo. After all, I’m in the storytelling business, right? Let’s be honest. Each of the pieces in Mi Estilo tells some type of story.
My story began in Detroit, where I was born. My parents came from Mexico. My mom raised me. My dad went to technical school and had a skilled trades job at GM after he came over. Dad worked at the Fleetwood Fisher Body Plant near Springwells and I-75. My earliest memories were of going to mass at St. Anne and then buying ribs at E&L. We shopped at both E&L and La Colmena (Honeybee). Back then, both stores were much smaller. When we bought pastries, which didn’t happen too often, we went to La Gloria. As I recall these infinite memories, they all have one thing in common: they were all colored in Spanish. Until kindergarten, Spanish was my first language.
For a number of reasons, my family moved out during the mid-1980s. Looking back, it was a strange experience. I went from the easy comfort of my Spanish-speaking world to the uncertain English-speaking one in the suburbs. We were, I guess, part of of the trend of Latinos starting off in Southwest Detroit but then moving out to the suburbs. The downside of moving out is that I didn’t feel like I could relate anymore. As it turned out, there were people that couldn’t relate to me either.
Having said this, what was even more worse is being rejected by some of the Latinos that stayed behind. About two years ago, I tried to get a job with one of the community newspapers in Southwest. After following up for a few weeks afterward and hearing nothing, I figured that there was no position for me. However, soon after, I ran into this same newspaper’s editor at a local festival. I told him who I was, that I was trying to get a writing position with his paper and had dropped off a resumé. At first, he was polite. However, a bit later, he told me about how he hated Mexican gringos coming into Southwest. I wasn’t completely sure then or now how exactly to take this. It soon hit me: he was calling people like me Mexican Uncle Toms.
Before that day, I was naive. However, on that day, I found out that while there were people that might look like me, they didn’t think like me. I realized how tremendous their hypocrisy must be. These people claim to defend Latinos, but then turn around and attack them. It’s either one or the other: are you a defender of all or a hidden attacker toward some?
I began to see that there wasn’t a publication that totally spoke to me, especially not after that incident. What kind of publication was there that appealed to bilingual Latinos that didn’t live in Detroit? There wasn’t one. My partners and I saw an opportunity-one where we could use our skills and experience to do something that hadn’t yet been done. I knew deep down that there had to be people out there that felt like me. There needed to be a broader voice for Latinos.
Personally, the incident at the festival pissed me off. However, I did something positive with that anger. I was damned if I was going to let people like that editor have the only say and be the only voice for our community. My intention isn’t to be “the voice” but to provide a forum where people can speak freely and not be judged. Some people might hate on me for moving out. However, I refuse to apologize for who I am and how I came to be here. This is my story told with my voice. So, now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.
I really enjoyed reading your story. I also grew up in SW Detroit. I attended the Boys and Girls Club on Livernois. I graduated from Chadsey High School in 1990. We often ate Saturday night dinners at Las Brisas and bought pastries and tortillas from Luna’s Bakery.
My last name being Gutierrez, people expected me to be dark skinned and speak fluent Spanish. However, I am light skinned and unfortunately, I do not speak fluent Spanish. Hell..I’ve never even been to Mexico. I often wondered where I fit in. The Mexican kids did not consider me Mexican. The White kids did not consider me white. Well…I obviously wasn’t dark enough to be black. But, the weird thing is that the Puerto Rican kids always accepted me. They were always friendly. Their parents welcomed me into their homes with open arms. My best friend was Puerto Rican and most of my boyfriends were Puerto Rican, too. My father, being of Mexican descent, explained to me that in his day, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans did not mix. Well…..I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. The only thing that mattered was finding a place to fit in. So, I learned to dance Salsa and Meringue. I went to all the Latin festivals at Hart Plaza and danced my heart out.
Growing up a Mexican/Italian/Irish/Indian kid was not fun. It was weird. What was I? Who was I? I just wanted to be one thing…not ten things! Although my mother is Cherokee Indian, she grew up down south, in West Virginia. She has a strong southern accent. Many of the neighborhood kids teased us and called us, “Mexibillies”. Kind of funny when I think of it now. Both of my sisters had blonde hair. I was the dark one. I am the sister with the dark eyes, and dark, curly hair. Why couldn’t I have the blonde hair? I used to dwell on that question.
Now that I’m older, I appreciate who I am. I am unique. I am fond of my cultures and nationalities. These are the things that make me different from everyone else. I often get the question, “What are you?” I answer with, “I am Rhonda.” Rhonda is a proud mixture of many beautiful things.
Although Detroit didn’t make me the most confident person in the past, it made me a stronger person. I now live in Wyandotte, and although many people refuse to believe that I have not forgotten my roots or where I came from, I can honestly say that I’m proud of Detroit. Detroit taught me to embrace my life and to work hard for a better future. It also taught me to appreciate everything that I have.
Thank you, Detroit!!
Our stories are remarkably similar, to the extent that my Father also worked at the old Fleetwood Fisher Body. The difference is that I am probably at least your Father’s age. My two sons and I have all experienced that “outsider” BS that has consumed folks in the Barrio, in one form or another. How sad.
Ricardo, my younger son and I just had a profound conversation about this very subject a few days ago. As we cruised through the old “hood”, we lamented about how detrimental this could be to our People, to our culture, to our very identity.
Am I, or are my sons, less of anything because I chose to live outside of SW ? Are our People in SW less of anything for having left Mexico, Texas, Illinois, New Mexico, California, OR . . . is that city, suburb, village, whatever – where you choose to live – richer for your Mexican presence in that community ?
I am what I am – wherever I am.
Rogelio “Chico” Hernandez