Friday, December 12, 2003

I did fifth year of grade school at Woodland Hills Elementary, a predominately anglo school. My classmates and I were the few Latino students there. We were all recent immigrants. Some were from El Salvador, others from Guatemala, and the rest of us were Mexicans. But even among Mexicans, I was “El Mexicano” — the Mexican — nickname that I bore with pride. Well, okay, to a certain someone I was “Mexican Burrito.” That’s what a white girl called me when one of my classmates told her I liked her. Heh.

Our being different brought problems to the school. Along with big, freckled-face Fernando Toledo, Jehova’s Witness Roberto Garcia, Salvadorean Jorge Sifontes, and others, I battled the forces of evil — the white boys in the adjoining classrooms. We’d fight in the restrooms, and mad-dog one another outside of it. Our teachers only wanted to know one thing: “Why?!”

My class was known for more than starting fights, though. I recall that a dance festival was held in the playground. Other classes did their dances, but none of them drew as much attention as when we danced “El Jarabe Tapatio,” a Mexican folk dance. The audience was ours.

Another thing I remember of my fifth grade school-year is that our teacher, Mrs. Luvitsi, would have us come to the front of the room so that we could either tell jokes or sing. I did both. Yes, I was talented. Just as I do now, I’d tell jokes that nobody would get (in other words, unfunny). I’d end my jokes asking, “Did you guys get it?” Surprise, surprise, they’d say “no…” I’d head back to my seat, shrugging, and saying in a whiny voice, “Well neither did I, but you’re the ones who insisted on me telling it!” Heh, that last bit always made them laugh, as if I had wasted their time telling them a long story just to deliver that line.

As to the songs we sang, they were mostly by “Los Tigres del Norte.” I’m pretty sure I knew most of their songs. This was perhaps how I came to be known as “El Mexicano” — back then, there was not a band more Mexican than “Los Tigres del Norte,” and me knowing their music made me the most Mexican of the Mexicans in my class.

This brings me to a song by “Los Tigres del Norte.” Many undocumented immigrants can relate to it. It’s their situation in music form. Many undocumented immigrants may have more money now that they are living in the U. S., than they did in their own country, but they still want to go back. They can’t return to it, however, because that would mean they’d have to risk their lives to re-enter the USA. Returning to USA is unavoidable, as they can bring thousands of dollars with them back to Mexico, but money vanishes. They have no choice but to remain living here, in what they consider their golden cage.

Translation:

Here I am, still living in the United States. It’s been ten years since the day I became a wetback. My situation is the same. I remain an undocumented immigrant. I have my wife and children, who came with me when they were little. They have forgotten about Mexico; I haven’t, but I can’t return to it.

What good is money if I’m being held in this (great) country against my will? Remembering this I cry, realizing that although the cage may be made out of gold, it’s still a cage, nonetheless.

(Father asks in Spanish:) “Hey, son, listen, how would you like to return to Mexico?”
(Son responds in English:) “What you talking about, dad? I don’t want to go back to Mexico. No way, dad.”

My children have assimilated. They no longer talk to me. They have learned another language and forgotten that which was their own. They think like Americans. They deny being Mexicans, although we bear the same brown skin. As for me, I remain the wetback who rarely roams the streets, the wetback who still fears being found and deported.

Really, what good is money if I’m being held against my will? Remembering this I cry, realizing that although the cage may be made out of gold, it’s still a cage, nonetheless.

La Jaula de Oro (Los Tigres del Norte)
MP3: Listen/Escuchar [Off]

Aqui estoy establecido
en los Estados Unidos
diez años pasaron ya

en que crucé de mojado
papeles no he arreglado
sigo siendo un ilegal

Tengo mi esposa y mis hijos
que me los trajé muy chicos
y se han olvidado ya

de mi México querido
del que yo nunca me olvido
y no puedo regresar

De que me sirve el dinero
si estoy como prisionero
dentro de esta gran nación

Cuando me acuerdo hasta lloro
que aunque la jaula sea de oro
no deja de ser prisión

— Escuchame hijo. Te gustaria que regresaramos a vivir a México?
— What you talking about, Dad? I don’t want to go back to Mexico. No way, dad.

Mis hijos no hablan conmigo
otro idioma han aprendido
y olvidado el español

Piensan como americanos
niegan que son mexicanos
aunque tengan mi color

De mi trabajo a mi casa
yo no sé lo que me pasa
que aunque soy hombre de hogar

Casi no salgo a la calle
pues tengo miedo que me hallen
y me puedan deportar

De que me sirve el dinero
si estoy como prisionero
dentro de esta gran nación

Cuando me acuerdo hasta lloro
que aunque la jaula sea de oro
no deja de ser prisión

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