JE #3A

                To me, cultural schizophrenia is the idea discussed in one of this course’s opening lectures – the idea that we all have borders inside of us and that we all have to come to terms with these borders on a daily basis.  The schizophrenia implies that there is are facets of us that are pulled in opposing directions, causing us to become confused about what is true to us and our identity and what is not.  My cultural schizophrenia comes from the contradictions in my Mexican and American cultures. 

                Though I was raised in the United States by immigrant parents who wanted the American Dream of education and success for their children, I was also raised by proud Mexicans who never allowed my family to feel like it was out of place or undeserving of being here.  Where I really began to register and face my cultural schizophrenia was when I entered the public school system.  Being Mexican American was not a big deal in my home, it was simply the norm.  In school, I was placed in a kindergarten class full of Spanish speaking children.  Again, I was surrounded by the norm.  However, I was later placed in the “advanced education” classes and found myself around a significantly reduced number of Latino students.  Upon entering middle school, I realized the different kinds of students there were, of Mexicans there were.  On the one hand, I felt praised and congratulated by the authority figures in my life.  I now realize that it was praise for not falling into the problematic identity of disobedient student, especially one of color.  I felt vague and formless in the eyes of friends and classmates who, because of the way I looked and behaved, assumed I was white or, worse yet, didn’t bother to try to figure out what I was.  I was nothing.  Until they heard me speak Spanish, when they’d realize that I was indeed Mexican. 

                The most troublesome judgment, however, came from my Latino peers.  Classmates I wasn’t close to didn’t always believe that I am Mexican.  One girl once disbelievingly asked me to prove it by speaking Spanish.  She was baffled when I did.  I was suddenly confronted with the notion that I wasn’t Mexican enough.  That the way I spoke and acted and looked was satisfactory to me, my family, and my teachers, but that it wasn’t enough for my Mexican peers.  I was praised by my elders, overlooked by my classmates, and misunderstood by my Mexican peers. 

I knew I was proud of the Spanish language, but I was uncomfortable with speaking Spanish to people of my own age.  I was aware of the culture, but was unaware of many of the smaller Mexican customs.  To this day, these things hold true.  I have always been thankful for the opportunities offered to me by American educational institutions, but the more I learn about the Chicano past, the more resentful I become of the way in which I was educated. 

I am Mexican, regardless of what others may think of me and how they may see me.  But, just as others cannot take away my Mexicaness, I cannot take away my Americaness.  I am both, and while that leaves the floodgates of cultural schizophrenia open, it is a struggle I am proud to grapple with.