No one knows that I'm Mexican.
Even Mexicans can't tell. It's a secret.
Going to Mexican bars, the juke box blaring
Vicente Fernandez gets turned down, the pool
games are paused and I get dirty looks from
everyone, the painters, the gangsters,
the cowboys — judgment in their
hearts.
The bartenders avoid me; I am discriminated
against for being white and in the wrong
place. When the bartenders finally speak,
it's broken English and I answer back in
Spanish; and they are always astonished,
wondering how this gringo can speak such
good Spanish, es good, es good, hablas bien!
But they still prefer speaking English
to me and they still resent me for figuring
out their secret language so I always give
up and answer back in English, wishing my
skin darker, my ethnicity more obvious.
Going to Mexican restaurants, going
up to the counter, the short dark girl with
the apron says hi, redy tu oder? and I'm
jealous of her skin tone and I say, si
and give my order: dos tacos de carne
adobada con una horchata, grande.
And she is shocked, relieved but shocked.
The cooks in the back say mira, el gringo
habla bien as they piss in my beans.
Habla bien is my new name.
No one knows that I'm Mexican.
Even Mexicans can't tell. It's a secret.
But I've been in jail and I own a pair of
Nike Cortez and used to play soccer and
I was apart of the anti-187 walkouts in the
90's while I was in Jr. High but
I did get a D in Spanish class, twice.
When the cops pull me over and write me a
ticket they look at the picture and the last
name on my ID, to determine my race and
check off the appropriate box on the ticket,
never getting it right, checking off
Caucasian/white.
My name is Luis Alberto Rivas,
not Lewis or Louis or Louise.
My parents came from a city called Jerez
in a state called Zacatecas in Mexico.
I was born in Los Angeles but I was never
injected with Caucasian blood.
I want to be cremated when I die;
and as I burn, the proper skin tone
will finally show itself and I will die
darker and truer.
I pull into the alley in
back of work. There's a
yellow hawk on top of a
pigeon. I stop the car to
get a better look. We lock
eye contact, all of us: the
hawk, the pigeon and I.
It's 6:35 AM, too early for
death. The hawk looks
annoyed that I'm interrupting
but I'm pretty sure hawks
don't get annoyed and if
they do, they probably can't
express the look of annoyance
anyway – but still it looks
annoyed. The pigeon looks
calm, unsurprised, accepting
like Gandhi, as if at peace
with its cruel fate. I think
about getting out and scaring
the hawk away to save the
pigeon, but then I think about
the hawk – it has to eat too.
I understand faultless cruelty.
Then the hawk gets off the
pigeon and perches on a nearby
fence and waits for me to leave.
The pigeon limps away, drenched
in blood with ruffled feathers,
one wing hanging lower than the
other. I drive up and unlock the
gate to my work's parking lot.
I turn around and the hawk is
still on top of the fence
looking at me while the pigeon
slowly staggers away, uncaring
with what happens, abandoning
itself to the same complicated
scheme of things that is
devouring you and me.
we would start
off with 80 grit
sandpaper and
finish the job with
finer 100 or 200
grit paper to make
it look nice and
smooth. we were
cousins with the
same name, luis y
luis. we waited
inside the cemetery
in zacatecas,
mexico in the early
gray morning with
all the poor kids
and ran up to
strangers and asked
them if they needed
a grave cleaned and
sanded they'd be
stricken with
grief, flowers in
hand, making their
way to the grave of
a dead husband or
father or mother or
son and we'd give
them a good deal:
40 pesos (around 5
dollars back then)
per grave. we'd
spend anywhere from
30 minutes to about
an hour on the
bigger gravestones
sanding the black
and green mold off,
twisting and
pinching the paper
to reach inside the
crevices of the
engravings and
corners, our skinny
fingers guiding the
paper inside the
detail. it was
hard work, and we
were too young to
feel anything. We
did our job and
afterward we spent
the money in the
videogame arcade
and bought ice
cream. we were
smarter than our
parents because we
understood death,
being so close to
birth, and we knew
that life made
sense like that,
sanding graves for
pesos to play
streetfighter 2 and
eat lemon flavored
ice cream. all the
poor kids did it.
it's a very stable
career; poor kids
will continually be
born and graves
will never run out.
