Thanks, Dad.  Thanks for all the spankings.  Thanks for all the lectures. Thanks for picking me up on Vernor and beating my butt for simply being there.

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.

Having just spoken about prejudice, this is an important concern for Mi Estilo.  As we look at Latinos, they encompass all sorts of backgrounds and shades.  I look at me and my family.  I look like the “stereotypical” Mexican: black hair, brown eyes and have brown skin.  Nonetheless, I have family—aunts and cousins—that have lighter features.  Who looks “more Mexican?” Admittedly, this is something that not just mainstream American society thinks about but we, Latinos, buy into as well.  Each Latino is unique and not with some formula that can be duplicated.

There is also the issue of language.  The Spanish that I speak is probably a bit outdated, as I learned it from my parents and they’ve lived here for over 30 years.  Up until I started studying it at the university, my vocabulary was limited.  My grammar and writing were horrible.  My r’s became harder to roll.  However as my studies progressed, so did my ability to read, write and speak Spanish.  Nonetheless, as I began to speak it with other Latinos, I felt less and less insecure because my Spanish was still a bit rough around the edges.

The realization came to me last night as I was reading a chapter of Mario Bosquez’ The Chalupa Rules: A Latino Guide to Gringolandia.  In Chalupa Rule 6 (Swim In Your Culture), he talked about being proud of whatever Spanish that you might speak.  Whether it’s Tex-Mex, Mexican or Guatemalan Spanish, any is valid because it is your expression. Your Spanish is the summary of your family’s cultural history.  I realized that my Spanish is as good and as valid as anybody else’s.

Language is one of the elements of culture and identity.  It’s also something that for many Latinos is fluid and constantly changing.  As immigrant Latinos continue to live in the United States, they will find that more English words start sneaking into their daily conversation.  The home culture mixes with the American one and becomes some strange combination that somehow works.  The thing to remember whether you’re an immigrant or a generational latino is that your culture is a unique expression of who you are and from where you came.  This is something to hold up as a source of pride.  Your culture is part of your style—tu estilo.  Live it.  Own it.  It is yours.

Author: Jose A. Rodriguez