culture – The Secret Life of Pandas

Viva México!

How are you viviendo México hoy?

My coworker Juan asked me if I was going to celebrate today. I just laughed and said no. I’m tired and old. He just chuckled. I like Juan he’s quiet and seems sweet. He gives me first gen vibes.

Yesterday my neighborhood was wild and awake and full of energy. People were shouting at the top of their lungs and honking their horns in celebration.

How do I vivir México?

I do that a lot. Speak Spanish in English.

It’s having a Spanish brain colonized by English speaking surroundings. “En esta casa se habla español,” becomes, “háblale a tus padres en español,” becomes “speak what you’re most comfortable in, they understand you anyway. They’ve lived here for a majority of their lives.”

It’s not being a “no sabo” kid. Thankfully, you’re not that bad. You tell them it’s ok, it’s not their fault they don’t know Spanish. But still, you clutch your gold name plate given to you by your Nina, and think, Como puede ser?

You can’t imagine not being able to jajaja con la Cuatro on Saturday nights, or fully understand how Chente was El Rey.

Yet every September you feel like you’re missing out.

I don’t really honk my horn or get dressed up with flags. Even though they’re readily available for weeks on every corner in my neighborhood.

It’s not my way. It’s not my tradition. My parents were not like that. And I guess that’s why I’m not either. We’re not. My sisters and I, the types to wear the red, white, and, green and wave flags on the corner.

Sure we went to the parade downtown. Early in the morning on a Saturday. Stopping at the two story Mcdonald’s on Randolph and Dearborn for breakfast. But once the parade was over, we went home and packed up the flag for another year.

What do you need a flag for? When you’ve got that huge nopal on your forehead?

How much does it matter?

Am I not Mexican enough when I say my last name in Español, or say mande when someone calls me in Spanish? Or how about when we get together to make tamales using my grandmother’s recipe?

These are the tiny flags I wave on a daily basis. The shouting I do from my kitchen.

Viva Mexico, every day.

There’s something electric about the unbridled reverie and passion Mexican people have when they’re celebrating that’s absolutely contagious. As I watched people cruise around my predominantly latino neighborhood in their decked out cars, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement. So much so I made my extremely patient boyfriend pull over at a corner where they were selling flags.

They had huge flags for $10. I was tempted. For a moment I wanted to be one of those girls hanging out the window of my boyfriend’s pickup truck waving my giant flag and yelling at the top of my lungs, “¡Viva Mexico!” But I demurred. I’d never been that girl. I’d never been one for flag waving and rabble rousing. My Mexican pride is something I celebrate on a daily basis in small ways, just by being myself. I asked if they had a nice, small, reasonably-sized flag. You know something for dainty pride. And also, because I was thinking of the logistics of storing my flag, where does everyone keep their giant flags when they’re not cruising around on the days leading up to the 16th?

But they were all out.

Of course they were. It was 9 PM on the 15th of September, peak cruising and celebrating time. She did however have a bandana, and at $1, it was a damn bargain. I wrapped it around my head like a Mexican Tupac and went on my way.

Maybe next year, I’ll be one of those girls, wild with excitement screaming and waving my giant flag as I hang out the passenger side, of my best friend’s ride… but until with my bandana on, and my Selena blasting, I’ll leave you with one last, “Viva Mexico, cabrones!”