Voz

This week's class tripped me out a little... 

The chapter on La Malinche in Labyrinth of Solitude can explain a lot about being a inbetween. I think many first/second generation immigrants see the exact point of collision between two different cultures.

When Ariel started talking about his piece and how it related to his history with stuttering, I could immediately relate. I stuttered as a kid too, and that lead to social anxiety, loneliness, alienation, and depression. The fact that many others in this class went through similar experiences was a little eerie but it makes sense. A close Korean friend who also grew up in Mexico had a very strong stutter, to the point that his nickname was Jun2 or J-J-J-Jun. Problems with communication are pretty apparent in the few Mexicanized Korean friends I have.

Later, Gigi was explaining her piece and period in her own life when she wouldn't speak. The night was getting eerier and eerier because I also went "mute" sometime in Elementary school. There are not many Korean Mexicans in the community that I grew up in, and almost none that had actually been born in Mexico. I would remember that being part of such a small minority made me vulnerable to attacks even from adults. Korean was my first and only language that I spoke until I entered school. There's a video of me at 4 or 5 in some guarderia yelling at another Mexican kid in Korean. I don't seem especially angry in the video, but I seem to remember the confused frustration of not being able to understand anyone around me, and not being understood in turn. I guess I quickly forgot Korean to learn Spanish, because now I am not proud to say that my Korean is ok but not great. I also remember being scolded by other Korean parents later because I wouldn't speak Korean well. I may have imagined the disdain in their voice, but at the time it was enough to make me feel like I wasn't even human unless I could fluently communicate in their language. As if I was the son of traitors, and somehow disgraceful. So I just did not speak to anyone, not even my parents. To this day I have few words to say, not because I do not have the capacity or desire to speak but because I no longer find what I say to be particularly important.

Finally, Andremar also brought up a good point about how people react to you when you have a heavy accent. I came to the US when I was already a bit older and past adolescence. When I first came, my accent was thick and I would need to repeat myself often. My first year here, I would watch and rewatch American movies and repeat all the lines in a hateful frenzy to speak like an American. I am at a point now where people think I am American if I don't mention where I am from, but it is somehow not something I appreciate much. I no longer need to have an 'e' sound before words that start in 's', or I learned how to dissimulate a 'th', but it feels like I sold out a part of who I was in order to conform.

From the stories people were sharing, I was able to reflect and recognize my own mestizaje. I am an hijo de la chingada porque mi crianza y la de mis compañeros de clase involucro violaciones. Mi voz surge de un pasado de cierto dolor. Lo increible es que aún así reconozco y reafirmo que la voz que tengo es indudablemente sólo mía. Nuestras voces como consecuencia de la Chingada son únicas e inigualables, y al mismo tiempo tan comúnes e inevitables en la historia de la humanidad que tienen poca importancia. Poreso, gracias a diós que soy mexicano, porque mi cultura me hace entender y aceptar mi individualismo y mi insignificancia. Me hace entender que la muerte es tanto una parte de la vida que es lo último de lo que me preocupo. Pa cuando falle mi filosofía, está la fiesta. Pa vivir de día en día, está la máscara. Mis maestros están en esos otros extremos de los cuales el pachuco es uno. En mi caso, mi voz es mi mundo, mi dios, mi manera de entender y sentir. Mi voz soy yo, y yo siendo un mexicano soy don nadie, con nombre de pila de fulano de tal.